Improvisation as a Compositional Paradigm

While the equation "composition = improvisation" has long been examined across academic and non-academic domains—and while the use of improvisation as a codified compositional tool is no longer exclusive to the jazz tradition in contemporary fields—it remains conceptually stimulating to reflect on the idea that “there is always composition in the genesis of improvisation, and vice versa” Mazzola, Creativity in Composition and Improvisation, Springer (2011) 

Although I broadly agree with the notion that both processes originate from the same creative seed, in working on this project I found myself drawn more specifically to the axiom: "I improvise, therefore I compose."

This statement, however, immediately confronted me with a set of questions and obstacles that could not be ignored. One major challenge was translation: What do I choose to carry forward from an improvisational moment into a compositional structure? Should I retain everything—or only a fragment? If I extract only a small part, am I unconsciously disregarding a latent narrative or formal logic that was already embedded in the act of improvisation itself? Or am I merely imposing a compositional frame after the fact?

These questions quickly spiral into a conceptual rabbit hole—where every possible answer seems to be both yes and no.

Moving beyond theoretical speculation, I realized that I was often unsatisfied with the idea of turning an entire improvisation into a final composition. This dissatisfaction arose partly because I had not approached the improvisation with any predefined structural intention—and partly because the resulting material lacked the coherence I intuitively seek in a completed work.

Even when isolating fragments that felt meaningful, I sensed that their real value did not lie in what they already were—but in what they could become. They appeared as seeds for something still undefined, carrying the potential for future growth and transformation.

What Is a Musical Tool?

The father of musique concrète, Pierre Schaeffer, offers a foundational definition of a 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 am in constant interaction with such tools—devices or concepts that preserve a causal connection to their origin, whether abstract or mechanical. A scale is a tool. So is a chord, a pedal point, a formal archetype, a visual image, or even a non-musical artwork. What unites them is the presence of a thread strong enough to be stretched, twisted, cut, burned, or transformed in any imaginable way, while still retaining a perceptible trace of its origin.

While many of these tools are rooted in objectified systems with well-defined rules, my own approach stems from a much more subjective and intuitive space. This raises a core tension: how can something so deeply personal be translated into a shareable form?

Musicologist Hans Heinrich Eggebrecht  described music as "thinking without concepts" (Denken ohne Begriff)—a form of cognition that resists rigid conceptualization but remains intelligible and expressive (Kutschke, 2019). This becomes especially relevant when composition does not begin from an external system, but from an inner, ineffable experience.

The tools I develop—emerging from improvisation and personal experimentation—are born from this tension between expressive openness and formal necessity, between the freedom to explore and the need to organize.

My Tools, My Rules

What emerges from this reflection is the need to strike a balance between openness and structure. In this view, a tool is not simply a means of control, but a framework for emergence — responsive to the needs of the moment and shaped by the personal context in which it is applied.

As Jonathan Burrows reflects:

"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% may be enough... The missing 30% is the space within which your body has room to develop."

This idea resonates deeply with my practice. When translating improvisation into composition, I must accept the incompleteness of what is retained. It is within that missing 30% that new meaning, new structure, and new music can arise.

From the outset of this project, I intentionally worked with minimal musical material: simple riffs, short loops, and repetitive gestures across the fretboard. This "serial looper" approach, which I have long gravitated toward even before this research, became the aesthetic foundation for the entire process. It created the conditions for listening to a single idea in depth, rather than generating multiple ideas without direction. Such an approach presupposes a level of internal organization, even if unconsciously applied. I often asked myself: what would have happened if I had begun instead with a fully formed piece, or a familiar structure? That too could be a future iteration of this research — a different starting point, no more or less valid.

“The painter Rothko said that the reason he painted was because he was still uncertain about what art is. That's why I compose. I still don't know what music is.”
— Morton Feldman, Give My Regards to Eighth Street (2000)

Other Tools, Other Rules

It would be impossible to ignore the wealth of musical knowledge and techniques I have accumulated over the years, especially within the environment of the Jazzcampus in Basel. My tutorage with Guillermo Klein has been especially formative in deepening my understanding of compositional tools through exercises, analysis, transcription, and cross-disciplinary approaches.

The piece Futura, for Big Band, (later presented as an output) draws from both new tools developed in this project and more traditional compositional strategies, such as formal design. Its main melody is inspired by earlier fragments developed through improvisation, marked by repetition and singular focus. Yet it quickly became contaminated by the influence of Stravinsky's Symphony of Psalms, particularly the formal shape of its first movement.

In this case, the fragment served as the minimal spark that ignited a more rigorously constructed compositional process, dictated by the ensemble and performance context. This raises a provocative question: how necessary is it to justify the use of improvised fragments in a composed setting?

Initially, I feared I was betraying the original fragment by transforming it so radically. But I have come to see this evolution as something inherently positive. It speaks to the composer's curiosity — to head in an unexpected direction, knowing the point of departure but not the destination.

“A composer is someone who pays attention to the connection between sound and place, between sound and purpose.”
— Pauline Oliveros, Deep Listening (2005)

Ultimately, the true success of this work lies in the understanding that even with a vast array of tools, it is neither necessary nor advisable to use them all — nor to use any one of them completely. The real challenge lies in recognizing which tool fits the context, while always remaining open to the unknown. This selection begins not at the moment of composing, but often before even knowing what ensemble or format one will be working with.

And as a Performer?

The use of tools in performance—particularly in improvisational settings—introduces an entirely different dynamic. Here, interpretation becomes the key element: how each performer reads and applies the fragment or parameter (whether as audio or visual) varies according to instrument, background, and perspective. For example, a parameter like Breath might hold a completely different meaning for a wind player than for a guitarist. This diversity of interpretation is a core feature, not a flaw. It ensures that the material remains inspirational, not prescriptive.

Each performer also decides how much of the fragment’s complexity to retain or discard. The tool thus becomes a site of negotiation between structure and freedom. The true "alien" element in this process is the human performer—bringing their own subjectivity, agency, and intuition to the material.

“Every musical situation suggests a different listening attitude. And every listening attitude generates a different music.”
— Luciano Berio, Two Interviews (1981)

This shift in listening attitude, as Berio notes, can generate instantaneous development from even the simplest idea. If I had offered completely random images and parameters, would the result have been the same? Perhaps. But what would be missing is the human knowledge that behind each fragment lies a personal thought process — one that invites a certain kind of attention and care. That is the first step out of the circle — the loop that distills the material over and over again. Even in its rawest form, the initial output of this system is simply this: to play, guided by listening.