With *Kein Ort. Nirgends* (No Place. Nowhere), you have written your first full-length stage work, and in the subtitle, you deliberately call it an opera rather than, say, "music theater." What interests a 27-year-old composer in the year 2006 about a genre that is over 400 years old?
For me, this tradition is very important. Anyone who can afford to smile condescendingly at it must first have something substantial to offer in its place. Contemporary music theater differs from opera in that it is usually freer from convention and more abstract, focusing on neither a plot nor concrete characters. For me as a composer, however, it is important to have a character before me with whom I can identify—even if the piece, as is the case with our *Kein Ort. Nirgends*, lacks a conventional plot.
Your composition was commissioned by the Mainz University of Music and the Rhineland-Palatinate Foundation for Culture. The requirement was for subject matter with a regional connection. Christa Wolf’s story provided a theme that met this criterion perfectly while also offering the opportunity to incorporate a kind of "fictionalized original setting" into the production: the Brentano Barn in Oestrich-Winkel. On the other hand, the material is not exactly an obvious choice for an opera. What interested you in this story—which, for Christa Wolf, served as a kind of "projection space for Romanticism" allowing her to reflect on the issues of her own time (the late 1970s in the GDR)?
That particular dimension is something I can only grasp to a limited extent, as I did not live in the GDR. I grew up in a world with different themes and problems. The GDR aspect is not part of my composition. I find it difficult to take a clear stance on that, and I admit that the analogy Christa Wolf drew between the GDR and Romanticism doesn't really interest me at the moment. The historical distance is too short, yet at the same time, that era feels very remote to me—a figure like Kleist feels much closer. In this poet—and to some extent in Günderrode as well—I recognize things that preoccupy me personally: certain ideas one carries in one’s head, inner visions one wants to bring into the open, and even that tragic sense of failure—though that certainly doesn’t mean I intend to take my own life!
An opera does not simply retell a story; it demands a dramaturgy of its own—one suited to the genre—from the source material. Christian Martin Fuchs crafted a libretto from Christa Wolf’s narrative—which lacks a conventional plot and is instead an intimate, internalized dialogue—that takes precisely this fact into account...
It was very difficult to adapt this material for the stage, as the narrative relies heavily on techniques typical of the novel—devices that work far better in film. These include the numerous interior monologues and the conglomerates of fragmented conversations that seem to overlap. In the book, one reads "Kleist says..." and that evokes certain connotations. We had to strip those away, because a character on stage doesn't come with a label reading "Kleist"; they must define themselves through their own presence.
The libretto does not strictly follow the narrative’s chronology. We also incorporated other sources—specifically letters written by Kleist and Günderrode—and consciously played with the duality of the artist versus society: on one hand, there is recurring "small talk" touching on contemporary themes like revolution and free will; on the other, we have the complex inner worlds of the two main characters. Yet sung text alone does not make an opera. It was crucial to establish a dynamic interplay between the three essential elements: text, action (or stage events), and music.
We spent a very long time searching for a fitting conclusion. We went through a wide variety of versions here, repeatedly discarding them. In Christa Wolf’s work, the Romantic utopia appears almost intact. We found it problematic to position the artist so radically against society and to posit an unequivocal sympathy for Kleist and Günderrode. We are no longer living in the 19th century, nor in the 1970s. In my ending, the two poets can no longer find their words; it is a wordless duet. The Romantic utopia is marked by a question mark.
Let’s turn to what is so neatly termed "the material": what are your musical means?
Notes…
You work with a wide range of musical styles, though—from the Baroque, Romanticism, and twelve-tone music to light music and even a contemporary musical language...
I draw upon the available musical resources to create a greater dramatic contrast between the various characters. These stylistic echoes aren't direct quotations but rather imitations of style—though I intentionally distort them into the grotesque by introducing wrong notes or alterations, throwing everything off balance. Nor do I try to truly emulate my models; after all, a stylistic imitation is better the worse it is.
You also use these various stylistic elements to characterize the individuals involved. The entire piece is a kind of "game," and just as the characters play with role models, you seem to be playing with styles yourself...
Yes, Baroque music, for instance, is associated with the psychiatrist Wedekind, who has a pompous and somewhat superficial manner. Friedrich Carl von Savigny—who later became the Prussian Minister of Justice—has a rather prosaic quality. He was in love with Karoline von Günderrode, too, but found her too exhausting. I wanted to portray a dry, wooden sort of person. To do this, I employed twelve-tone technique in a way one certainly shouldn't: strictly by the textbook, resulting in a sound that is almost soulless. In Christa Wolf’s story, Bettine is still a young, somewhat carefree girl. She inhabits a mental world similar to Karoline’s but is unaware of her struggles. I assigned her fragments of coloratura arias—and towards the end, even a grand Italian aria, though the coloratura passages repeatedly go off-key and the cadenza drags on far too long. Finally, Clemens Brentano is associated with a clichéd Romantic tone—a piano style reminiscent of the Lieder of Schubert or Schumann. The music associated with the two main characters stands in stark contrast to this world. Karoline von Günderrode is usually accompanied by woodwinds with a piercing timbre. Her vocal line is strictly syllabic, possessing a decisiveness that seems to know exactly what it wants. Kleist’s musical world, by contrast, is defined by extremes. Highly expressive atonality and melismatic vocal writing allow for a vast emotional range. A clarinet—an instrument the historical Kleist actually played himself—sounds as a kind of inner voice for the poet, at times shrieking, at others dark and withdrawn. Time and again, I have tried to see through Kleist’s eyes, to hear through his ears, and to portray reality as distortedly as he perceives it.
This interplay with a vast store of existing material has the quality of a musical masquerade, behind which the opera’s characters also partly conceal themselves. Are there moments when the music finds its true self?
The interlude shortly before the end, where no action takes place on stage and Kleist and Günderrode appear only as voices. For me, this is the heart of the piece, featuring music that expresses profound grief and resignation.
Of course, I am present as a composer within these stylistic imitations, too; they are part of me, and I take great pleasure in writing such music.
The search for a personal musical style is indeed a challenge today. Composers are expected to constantly reinvent their language, yet one cannot develop a language and speak it at the same time. I have tried to address this issue by employing various syntaxes simultaneously. This frees me up to focus on what I want to say, rather than limiting myself to reflecting on the best way to say it. Thus, I do not draw upon tradition out of nostalgia. For me, the worlds of the past are not alien; they are simply worlds that come to us mediated through others.
Your opera is also very humorous in many places. Moments of slapstick and comedy arise repeatedly, and the music itself possesses an immense wit.
As with Mozart’s *Don Giovanni*, the work would be far less unsettling without these *buffo* elements. For me, the interplay between resignation and self-irony is crucial—a kind of duality found in the works of E.T.A. Hoffmann and Jean Paul, or indeed Woody Allen, whose aesthetic approach I feel very close to. Opera must also entertain; that has not changed for centuries. It is a simple yet effective psychological principle: what is fun to create also brings pleasure to others. I found it equally enjoyable to—compositionally speaking—crawl inside Kleist’s head and, from that vantage point, render his surroundings as if through a camera lens, capturing everything from their shallow superficiality to their grotesque, menacing nature. In doing so, I allow myself to push the boundaries compositionally—for in the theater, when it comes to entertainment, any means is fair game.