Cover Image: Composer Olivia Davies. Photo: Hannah Jones.

Q: Your tenure as composer-in-residence at the West Australian Symphony Orchestra is nearing its conclusion with ‘Swarm’ coming up as part of WASO’s ‘Pandemonium’ concert in November. Could you say how this period has shaped or perhaps even redefined your practice as a composer?

A: This residency has given me a much bigger canvas on which to explore my ideas, and with that, encouraged me to push those ideas further. 

The sheer size of an orchestra means you can really explore the extremes – from soft, isolated sounds, to the whole ensemble in complete sonic chaos and everything in between – the possibilities are amplified. Writing for orchestra has really cultivated a love for these bold sounds and musical contrasts and ultimately shaped my aesthetic through the desire to connect them. It’s a process of balancing drama, contrast, continuity, and nuance. 

Q: You’ve worked with conductors like Asher Fisch and Dmitry Matvienko during your time with WASO. What have you learned from these collaborations, and how have they informed your approach to orchestration or large-scale form?

A: This residency has nurtured a deep appreciation for a conductor’s skill, and influence. I’ve come to understand how much not only musicality, but also personality, directly impacts the music you hear. Navigating this has strengthened my voice and sense of belonging in the orchestral space and shown me how best to communicate my intentions and ideas in a context that, for practical reasons, can’t foster a more hands on, collaborative approach with the musicians. 

How these relationships have informed orchestration, and form has really been more gradual, and indirect. As I listened to different conductors interpret my music, I experienced, through their response and approach, which ideas have and haven’t worked. I’ve come to really understand that this judgment, based on their interpretation, must always consider their aesthetic tastes, and knowledge around new music. It’s always an interesting part of the process and is the closest I get to feeling any sense of objectivity towards my work – so I really value their input. 

My last piece for full orchestra ‘Hyphae’ was a highlight. Dmitry was incredible to work with. Engaged, curious, communicative. It was clear he wanted to understand the piece and shape it to the best version possible. 

Q: Your music often reveals what has been described as ‘radical restraint’ – a kind of compositional minimalism steeped in texture and temporal nuance. How do you conceptualise silence, stasis and repetition in your musical thinking?

A: I believe it was René Char who said, “each act is virgin, even the repeated ones”. That has stayed with me ever since I read it many years ago in undergrad. I’m obsessed with the effects of repetition and the detail it can reveal in the material. I often use it to emphasise the gesture of each musician. For example, give the same material to each musician, have them play it at slightly different times, and you hear how their individual gesture influences the sound; the way they approach, sustain, and let go of it. Those micro differences I hear as character. Multiply that by however many musicians, and you get texture. 

Silence, of course, is just as important as sound, and I shape it into a piece in much the same way. By that I mean, I’m intentional and sometimes even strict about when I use it. This could be intuitive or procedural – gradually erasing parts at discreet intervals until you’re left with a single tone, for example. I sometimes think about this in my broader approach to composing – that I’m kind of reverse engineering from a mass texture. Starting with all sounds, all at the same time, silence is the tool I then use to carve out the music. 

Q: Projects like Gradient – a six-hour audio-visual installation – suggest a porous boundary between visual and sonic art. Can you speak to the relationship between your visual art practice and your music? Do the two emerge from a shared conceptual impulse?

A: I haven’t merged my visual and musical practice in many projects, and I’d like to do this more. I see music and photography simply as the two mediums with which I’m the most literate. They both stem from my desire to create, and express, and it feels like they’re both searching for the same thing, although I’m not sure I know what that is just yet. 

One of the commonalities in my practice within both mediums, however, is that they’re very much led by the material itself. Where a sound or musical gesture might influence a whole piece, the light in a space or on a subject will inform me how to approach and photograph it. The process begins with curiosity, and is responsive, intuitive and open. 

Q: Much of your music seems to spring from natural processes, both in inspiration and in structural design. Is there a philosophical or even ecological underpinning to this? How does nature instruct, or shape, your listening?

A: Nature has been a big part of my life. I often think that growing up in the bush in the Perth hills is the reason I’m drawn to texture, both in my visual and musical practice. The details and variation in the Australian bush have always captured my imagination, and as a kid I would spend a lot of time admiring the various shapes, lines and patterns. That, and just concocting ‘leaf potions’ with which I would try, unsuccessfully, to poison my brother. 

I often find myself looking at something in nature and thinking ‘I wonder what that would sound like if it were a piece of music’. It’s become a great source of structure and form in my compositions, driven by both my love of nature, and interest in writing outside traditional forms. 

Q: What role does technology – particularly electroacoustic media – play in your compositional voice? Are there tensions or synergies between acoustic and electronic worlds in your work, or do you see them as intrinsically united?

A: When it comes to my compositional process, they’re intrinsically united. I’ll often start with various samples I’ve recorded myself or with a friend. It helps me get into the world of the instrument I’m writing for and allows me to explore and respond to the material freely and intuitively. I typically ‘mock-up’ little sketches, then transcribe these into music notation. From there I’ll shape and develop the ideas further, and that’s when the ‘problem solving’ begins – the craft of it.

I think all of this then leads to more of an aesthetic synergy between the two. Acoustic music born out of electroacoustic experiments and vice versa. But I don’t think about this when I’m doing it.

Q: Your piece ‘Murmuration’, composed during the Peggy Glanville-Hicks residency, became the subject of a short documentary. How did that residency, and the act of being documented, affect your sense of authorship or vulnerability as an artist?

A: Interestingly, when I moved into Peggy’s, I already had a mostly finished piece for that commission, but something wasn’t resonating. So, I set up a mic and awkwardly sung my way through the text, completely surrendering to where my intuition was leading me. I rewrote the piece two weeks out from the deadline.

I give this context because for me, writing Murmuration was a revealing experience. I could feel that something had aligned with that work, and it was a turning point for my process – it felt more vulnerable. In hindsight I can see that the documentary was a continuation of that desire and readiness to share and reveal more about myself and my work, to those who were/are interested.

Importantly, it was directed by my best friend Melle Branson. When it’s someone who knows you to your core, and whose work and vision you admire, it was easy. I trust her completely and didn’t dwell on what the result could, would or should be. 

Q: You are also active as a mentor and educator. How has teaching – particularly one-on-one work with young composers – altered or deepened your own creative outlook?

A: I think whenever you start teaching, you get a greater perspective and appreciation for what you know. I enjoy the format of 1:1 mentoring because I love having focussed conversations about the creative process, and the practical ways of how to take an abstract idea and transform it into something. Through teaching I’ve listened to myself articulate ideas, and felt my own preferences and taste come into the conversation. It’s interesting to reflect on these moments. It’s often said the best approach to teaching composition is to be a mirror. You don’t want to impose or directly tell the student how or what they should write. Instead, the goal, I think, is to understand their concept, consider their current aesthetic preferences, nurture that, and then encourage them to explore and push their ideas further. 

Then there are times when it’s more about guiding the student through the inevitable phase of self-doubt and finding ways through blocks and procrastination. Again, I often listen to myself in these moments, and it feels like I’m giving myself the advice – I really should take it. 

Q: There’s a delicate choreography in your soundworlds – of tension and resolution, time and decay. How do you understand the relationship between emotion and abstraction in music? Do you aspire to communicate feeling, structure, or something in between?

A: I don’t consider any of those things – emotion, abstraction, structure – as mutually exclusive, or opposites. Some incredibly emotive and evocative music is constructed entirely from strict process and structure—take Arvo Part for example. But if we’re talking about when that strict process and structure renders a sound that isn’t conventionally beautiful, well that’s something different, that’s about taste. Music that sits more towards the abstract or the mathematical is still evocative, it’s just whether we like what it’s evoking in us or not. 

In my own work, the idea comes first, which is often either a specific sound or a process. I then see how far I can push it. In ‘Oscillations for Orchestra’, I really took this to an extreme, to the point where I divided the audience. People loved it and people hated it – I heard it all. It’s intense, and probably not something you pop on to listen to when you go for a mental health walk, but it satisfied the part of me that at the time, wanted to write a heavily process-driven piece. There is also a lot of emotion in it. 

Generally, though, I aspire to communicate something in between, where form and texture unfold in tandem, along with the emotion that that naturally evokes. I guess it’s a search for balance. 

Q: Finally, what ambitions or projects lie ahead for you? Are there particular forms, media, or collaborations you long to explore that you haven’t yet touched?

A: I’ve just had a taste of the film world, having contributed a very small excerpt of music to Kasimir Burgess’ latest feature documentary Iron Winter, which just had its Australian premiere at MIFF. Hearing my music against such beautiful cinematography was exciting.

Also in the film world, Melle and I are collaborating again but this time for a short film. Melle, who’s an absolute force, is one of four directors to have received Screenwest’s Elevate funding. The film is called Fuzzy and follows a young 12-year-old girl whose sinister relationship with an imaginary friend is gradually revealed. It’s dark, and it’s bold, and I can’t wait to get weird with it. 

I also have several smaller commissions coming up, all of which involve working closely with the musicians. And I think that’s what I’m craving now – to expand my skills and ideas through collaboration, moving beyond what I can do alone.

Olivia Davies’ Swarm premiers on 6-7 November as part of WASO’s State of the nation programme. More information here.