The Story of Nilay’s Dream – Part 2
On a warm spring evening in Cyprus, my phone rang. “This is Brian Lock from Royal Holloway.” My heart raced, but I had to maintain my composure. I couldn’t let this opportunity slip away; this was the phone interview I had been waiting for since I applied to study in the UK. I knew I needed to sound confident enough to mask that I had only been studying music for five years and to moderate my cultural background, which was still in the early stages of developing a fine arts department. “So, we have been looking at the material you sent us… tell us about your piece, the Concerto for Piano and Strings”. My heart sank. It was one thing to compose, but to talk about it?
After switching my major from guitar to composition, something that wasn’t an option when I initially enrolled—my first lecturer was Jean-Michel Boulay, with whom I studied 20th-century music analysis, modal counterpoint, music notation, and sight singing. In our third year, we had a new composition lecturer, David Hanner, with whom I initially had a complicated relationship. However, we eventually managed to reconcile our differences. In retrospect, I believe some of his unusual behavior stemmed from cultural shock, and who can blame him? Cyprus can be rough sometimes, and academia is a hit-and-miss most of the time (more so now than before). During some of his classes, we simply sat and listened to avant-garde music. In one particular class, we listened to Cage's Sonatas and Interludes for Prepared Piano, the whole CD. The music was fascinating and shocking, but once the novelty wore off, it sounded chaotic and random to our ears. Remember that we had been singing Lavignac songs in Solfège two years prior; how could we possibly understand Cage? The most ‘contemporary’ piece we had studied in music history was probably "The Rite of Spring," which felt like a lullaby compared to what David was exposing us to. Our ability to perceive and appreciate such music was not fully developed then.
Photo: Erfan Arefi (2003)
I recall the strangeness of that session. David entered, played the CD, and sat beside us to listen. Once the music finished, he stood up, took the CD, and said, "See you next class," before leaving the room. In another class, he asked us to bring our favourite classical or modern repertoire pieces. Without much thought, I chose Portsmouth Point Overture by Walton, my favourite orchestral piece at the time. I had always dreamed of composing a similar short and energetic orchestral work. Since I had been into jazz early on, I felt that Portsmouth contained many jazz elements, such as syncopated rhythms and interesting chords. However, David dismissed the piece with a swift gesture, calling it a Western film soundtrack. On the other hand, and to his credit, I learned much about orchestration, the instrument families, and how to use them from him. I even enjoyed his compositions on the rare occasion that he shared them with us. It was enlightening. I didn’t even realise such music or sound worlds could exist. ‘Anvoar’ was the name of one of his pieces, If I am not mistaken, which I might be after 20 or so years. My initial reaction was to ask what the name meant. With a cold stare, he plainly said that it did not mean anything, making sure with his tone, as he often did, that I was asking the ‘wrong question’ – again. Seeing I was unsatisfied, he added, “I made it up”.
In our senior year, we had one-on-one composition tutorials, and in the second half of the year, we tackled the highly anticipated senior project. This was the year we had all been waiting for; it was time to put all our accumulated knowledge to good use. David left our department, and in his place came Miroslav Spasov, whom I had met in Macedonia during a summer composition workshop. He emphasised that you don’t just compose at the piano; you think about it while walking in the street, doing groceries—everywhere. Composition, he said, is problem-solving, and you are constantly looking for solutions: how to connect the parts, where to lead next, how to begin or end the piece, etc. Once you sit at the piano, you already know where to go next; it's been in your head all along, and now is the time to refine it and write it down. Family and friends know all too well; and it can be annoying at times, but he may be the reason I sometimes seem absent-minded. To this day, I compose in my head everywhere, not in the same sense that Beethoven composed without hearing or that Mozart could listen to a piece of music and come home to notate it. Instead, it is like finding solutions on where to lead the piece, what should happen next, and for how long? etc. It’s generally not about imagining the notes and melodies in your head. His teachings, mentorship, and ideas have stayed with me to this day.
In one memorable class, he asked me to improvise on the piano. I was afraid and hesitant, so I refused. He stood up, looked at me, and, with his distinct accent, said, “Guards are pointing guns at you—DO IT NOW!” At that moment, my fingers reached the keys, and I began to play. The more I played, the more it made sense. Melodic motives started to emerge; I found myself attempting to create counterpoint with imitations, playing unexpected chords reminiscent of Cage, utilizing syncopated rhythms like those of Walton and Gershwin, and experimenting with polychords in the style of Stravinsky. Everything I had learned up to that point was finally coming together magically.
In another session, he asked me to bring a melody. When he realized I hadn’t, he questioned me about it. To him, my excuse was worse than not bringing a melody. I explained that I couldn’t come up with one that I liked. He shouted, full of animated enthusiasm, “Hah! What a romantic notion! You couldn’t find a melody you liked?! We no longer compose the way Beethoven or other Romantics composed!” These little moments have shaped my approach in composition and, quite simply, in all projects I undertake.
EMU Student Chamber Orchestra
Excerpts from Concerto for Piano and Strings
I don’t remember how the idea of composing a Concerto for Piano and Strings came about, but I completed the first movement under Miroslav's mentorship. I could only complete the first movement during my senior year, which was performed by the school orchestra at the end-of-the-year concert. The piano part was excellently executed by our piano teacher, Benjamin Moritz. The whole experience of preparing the score, attending the rehearsals, fixing some issues that arose during the rehearsals, seeing what worked on paper didn’t exactly translate well in rehearsal, more fixes and tinkering, watching Miroslav conduct and give directions, discovering special bowing techniques of the strings, all of this was a mind-blowing experience I could not get enough of. That, coupled with the master-apprentice relationship we fostered with Miroslav, made me want to lengthen my studies and complete the concerto by adding two more movements.
With my heartfelt consent, my advisor postponed my senior project to my fifth year, when I would typically have graduated in my fourth year. This extension lengthened my studies and gave me an entire year to complete the project without the added burden of additional courses. That final year turned out to be my most productive to date, and it was when I truly understood what it meant to compose and to be a composer. It was incredibly motivating.
Throughout the year, I focused on completing the remaining second and third movements of my piece. I had to work efficiently, as the academic year is not very long, and I needed to reserve ample time for rehearsals with the pianist and orchestra, along with score preparations. One of our school’s piano lecturers, Omri Shimron, kindly agreed to perform the piano part, despite my peculiar score, written by a non-pianist. During this time, Miroslav also helped me apply to continue my studies in the UK. I remember we reached out to five schools, including Cambridge, which we threw in as a ‘what if’ scenario!
Saturday night was the night of the annual departmental concert, and it would be my last. I was in mixed feelings and very emotional indeed. Our school orchestra had been rehearsing my whacky work for months; no doubt many hated me for it. I even designed the poster of the concert, which we hung in several locations around campus. By the time the concert ended, it felt like the end of a chapter in my life, and it couldn’t have ended in a more meaningful way.
“Interesting stuff”, said Brian, on the other end of the phone, but the nature of the conversation gave me little idea whether I was accepted to the school or not, so I bluntly asked. “Well, as far as I know, you are already accepted; I’m just having this call with you to get to know you and your work”, – he said something like this, if memory serves me well. I felt a surge of relief and hopeful dreams racing through my mind as he continued speaking. So, that was it: I was heading to the UK to pursue a master’s degree in composition! Something inside me told me that I wouldn’t be returning to Cyprus, and honestly, I didn’t want to. It no longer merely felt like it; it was the end of a chapter. London was calling!
To be continued…
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