Improvisation as a Compositional Paradigm

While the equation composition = improvisation has long been explored across academic and non-academic domains, and the use of improvisation as a codified compositional tool is no longer confined to the jazz tradition, it nonetheless remains conceptually stimulating to reflect upon the idea that “there is always composition in the genesis of improvisation, and vice versa.”[^1]

Although I largely agree with the notion that the same creative seed resides at both poles, in approaching this work, I found myself naturally gravitating toward the axiom: “I improvise, therefore I compose.” This, however, immediately confronted me with a series of questions and obstacles that could not be ignored.

One key challenge is the matter of translation—what do I choose to carry forward from an improvisational moment into a compositional structure? Should I retain everything, or only a fragment? And if I select only a part, am I perhaps overlooking a latent pre-conception of form or narrative that was already present during the act of improvising? Am I unconsciously imposing a compositional framework after the fact? These questions, rather than yielding clear answers, seem to spiral into a conceptual rabbit hole, where every possible response appears to be both “yes” and “no.”

Beyond theoretical speculation, I realized I was dissatisfied with translating an improvisation wholesale into a finished composition. This dissatisfaction stemmed from the fact that I had not approached the improvisation with a predefined structural intention, and because the resulting musical material lacked the sense of coherence or completeness I instinctively sought—similar to the feeling one might have after completing a commission that consumed months of effort, yet fails to resonate fully. Even when selecting isolated fragments that felt meaningful, I sensed that their true value lay not in what they already were, but in what they could become—as seeds of something yet undefined, carrying a latent potential for future development.

What Is a Musical Tool?

The father of musique concrète, Pierre Schaeffer, offers a foundational definition of the musical tool:

“Any device that enables the production of a varied collection of sound objects, while maintaining a perceptible causal relationship with the source, can be considered a musical tool.”
— Pierre Schaeffer, Traité des objets musicaux, 1966

In my experience as a composer, I find myself constantly interacting with tools—devices or ideas that maintain a causal connection to their source, whether abstract or mechanical. A scale is a tool. So is a chord, a pedal point, a formal archetype, a visual image, or a non-musical artwork—anything that offers a sense of connection and lineage, a thread strong enough to be stretched, twisted, cut, burned, or transformed in any imaginable way, while still retaining a trace of its origin.

While many of these tools—such as tonal scales—are based on long-established, objectified systems with clear rules and conventions, my personal approach originates in something far more subjective and intimate, and inherently difficult to describe without some form of external codification. This dilemma mirrors one of the enduring paradoxes of music itself, as an art form less immediately concrete than painting, cinema, or language. How, then, can one describe through music something that is seen or felt in the world, or within the way one lives?

Musicologist Hans Heinrich Eggebrecht famously characterized music as “thinking without concepts” (Denken ohne Begriff), a form of mental activity that eludes rigid conceptualization yet remains deeply intelligible and expressive (Kutschke, 2019). This idea is crucial when one begins the compositional process not with a codified system, but from a place of personal, ineffable experience. My own compositional tools, born from free improvisation devoid of predefined conceptual frameworks, emerge precisely from the tension between limitlessness and limitation, between expression and organization.

My Tools, My Rules

What emerges from this reflection is the need for a balance between limiting objectivity—the kind that gives stability and structure—and the openness required to allow for growth and personal transformation. In this view, the tool is not just a vehicle for control, but a framework for emergence, responsive to my evolving artistic needs.

As one composer beautifully describes:

“My picture looks like this: I improvise and find myself in the middle of a complexity beyond my ability to grasp. I am flying. I try to recreate that moment, using my memory […] I must accept that I can only find back 70% of the complexity. 70% of the complexity may be enough. There is, embodied within the form of Tai Chi, the idea that you use only 70% of your capacity and force. The missing 30% is the space within which your body has room to develop. Many great pieces grow from processes which accept that what is lost leaves room for something else to arrive.”

This concept resonates deeply with my practice. In translating the moment of improvisation into compositional form, I must embrace the incompleteness of what is retained. It is in that missing percentage—in that void—that new meaning, new structure, and new music can emerge.