Name: Linda Catlin Smith
Nationality: American, Canada-based
Occupation: Composer
Current Release: Linda Catlin Smith teams up with Thin Edge New Music Collective on Dark Flower, out now via Redshift.

If you enjoyed this Linda Catlin Smith interview and would like to stay up to date on her music, visit her official homepage. She is also on Soundcloud.

For a deeper look into her thoughts on music, we recommend our earlier Linda Catlin Smith interview. 



Where does the impulse to create something come from for you? What role do often-quoted sources of inspiration like dreams, other forms of art, personal relationships, politics etc play?

The impulse to work comes in different ways. I like to be in the process of wondering about music, and I would say my own curiosity is what impels me to get to work. I want to see what will happen, what material will I discover, what sort of world will it be ...

Sometimes I’m inspired by a work I’ve heard. I wrote my Piano Quintet, for instance, because I heard one of Faure’s piano quintets on the radio one night when I was driving home from teaching, and it was so beautiful I was drawn to work with that same instrumental palette.

In general, I love to be in the process. Even though it’s difficult. I like the interior conversation I’m having with myself, and with the material. It’s a kind of wondering: What do I want to hear, what sort of world is this piece, how can I take myself somewhere new?

At the base of it all, I want to be hearing something, it’s a kind of desire, and composing is a way to get close to that desire, to be surrounded by a sound world that I want to be in.

For you to get started, do there need to be concrete ideas – or what some have called a 'visualisation' of the finished work? What does the balance between planning and chance look like for you?

I usually don’t have concrete ideas … quite the opposite. My work Meadow for string trio was inspired by the textural weave of early music, a world I wanted to get inside of. And of course it doesn’t really sound like that world, but maybe carries a hint of it, and that got me in the door of the piece.



I usually have a vague, faint, hazy image of something I would like to hear – sometimes it’s a textural thing, a sinuous weave or a harmonic wash of sound; sometimes it’s more of a visual image like the layered backgrounds of still life paintings, or the way grasses move in a field – an image that I want to try to make in sound.

It’s all very ambiguous, very tenuous. And very intriguing.

Is there a preparation phase for your process? Do you require your tools to be laid out in a particular way, for example, do you need to do 'research' or create 'early versions'?

At the beginning stage of a new piece, a kind of psychological preparation might be to listen to works by other composers, or to look at paintings – I have a lot of art books – to get myself more or less in the attitude of concentration I need for working.

This preparation slows down my mind and steadies myself for state of mind that is ready to focus, like clearing the slate of my thought processes … But sometimes the preparation is just the act of sharpening my pencil.

Once you've started, how does the work gradually emerge?

I often feel that the work emerges like the development of a photograph. "Dark Flower," for instance: I started with the idea of rolled low register piano arpeggiations in a bed of string chords – that was the starting point, just that one image.



And that’s enough for me - I find some bit of material I want to explore, then maybe that lengthens and evolves, and over time I gradually get more thoughts and ideas, and I start to become more specific about timings, rhythms, orchestration, and the overall details become more refined.

Often the key is finding the right notation – does it need barlines, should it be metered, what kind of approach to dynamics does it need? So what began as a blurry kind of thought gradually becomes more and more defined.

Many writers have claimed that as soon as they enter into the process, certain aspects of the narrative are out of their hands. Do you like to keep strict control or is there a sense of following things where they lead you?

I don’t feel I’m in strict control because I don’t have a plan that I then fill out. There’s nothing wrong with having a plan, but that never seems to work for me. I start with something, maybe even just a few notes, and then see where it might lead.

Where I have control is in the questions I am asking: Should this go longer? Should it thin out a bit? Is this anything? ... Sometimes I have the feeling the piece wants to go its way – meaning I sometimes have to get my own preferences out of the way and pay attention to the material and how it can unfold.

I make small experiments to try to get to something I might not normally do. I try to slightly disorient myself by adding in different pitches, or doing something longer than I normally would, or adding silences, or changing the register …

It’s a continuous conversation with the process. I try things one way and then another. I explore new ideas as they come, but I usually try to just put in what the piece needs, rather than what I like.

There are many descriptions of the creative state. How would you describe it for you personally? Is there an element of spirituality to what you do?

I feel the creative state is one of deep concentration. I like this state – it’s where the sense of self disappears for a short time. It’s good to disappear into sound, it’s a kind of refuge from the world, from my self.

Paradoxically, I feel very connected; maybe being immersed in sound is a way to be still and attentive and aware.

Once a piece is finished, how important is it for you to let it lie and evaluate it later on? How much improvement and refinement do you personally allow until you're satisfied with a piece? What does this process look like in practise?

It’s a real gift to me if there’s time to let a piece sit and then come back to it later, even weeks or months later; this allows me to approach the work with a degree of detachment.

I don’t often have the luxury of time, but when I do, it’s so helpful, allowing me to make some changes – even very small ones – that make all the difference to me in terms of making the work feel more whole. It’s as if the time  that elapsed allows me to approach the work with a kind of ruthless clarity.

We have to be our own editors, to make the work as clear as possible.

After finishing a piece or album and releasing something into the world, there can be a sense of emptiness. Can you relate to this – and how do you return to the state of creativity after experiencing it?

When I’m finished with a work, I’m usually so ready to let go of it – I often say I have to finish with a piece before it finishes with me.

By this I mean that sometimes I almost get tired of the work, my fascination with it starts to fade, and my mind is ready to get onto the next new thing that I want to be thinking about. It’s like I’ve exhausted the idea of that piece, and the new one is waiting just around the corner. And that new piece is something that gives me energy and curiosity to get back to work.

I really believe the well of creativity is never dry. I may be tired, exhausted even, or depressed, or empty, but the way through that is to start thinking about something new. And that new thought is like a tiny spark that gets me interested, and I start to feel curious, and ready to get back to work.