José María Sánchez-Verdú is an Andalusian composer living between Madrid and Berlin.
His music, the result of a highly personal and distinctive approach recognized internationally, is deeply influenced by his interest in architecture and painting—particularly the works of Paul Klee and Pablo Palazuelo, and their sculptural treatment of forms and the geometry of space. Over the course of his career, he has collaborated with some of the most prominent performers on the contemporary music scene: Ensemble Modern, MusikFabrik, Ensemble Mosaik, Ensemble Recherche, Ensemble Nikel, Jürgen Ruck, Elena Casoli, Marcin Dylla, among others.
Sánchez-Verdú’s music possesses a striking imaginative and communicative power, which has led to his works being regularly featured in Europe’s most important contemporary music festivals. His connection with the guitar is deep and enduring: his catalog includes around forty works in which the instrument takes center stage. It’s an ongoing exploration where traditional and popular elements (linked to his Andalusian roots) blend with resonances, subtle dynamics, and alternative tunings that stretch the instrument’s boundaries. In this conversation, we’ll delve into this long-standing journey with the Spanish composer—not only reflecting on what has been accomplished, but also offering a glimpse into what the guitar of the future might become.
Dear José María, thank you very much for accepting our invitation.
You’ve dedicated a significant part of your catalog to the guitar. What was your first encounter with the instrument?
My first instrument as a child was the bandurria, a kind of mandolin typical of Spain and several Latin American countries like Cuba, Colombia, and Venezuela. Alongside the bandurria came the guitar and the lute. Later, other instruments entered the picture during my formal music education—violin, piano, organ—but the guitar remained in the background of a musical vision that also marked some of my earliest compositions. Tránsito is an early example, almost my opus 1, even though there were many earlier pieces. I always make a point of mentioning that one of the first composition courses I attended was with Leo Brouwer—an encounter that undoubtedly enriched and inspired my journey into composition, and also deepened my love and keen interest in the guitar.
We know you’re passionate about architecture—especially Arab architecture—and painting. How, and to what extent, has this influenced your compositional approach?
I have a deep interest in architecture from many perspectives—it’s one of my greatest passions, and I constantly relate it to the craft of composition. This outlook, along with my interest in other art forms (painting, sculpture, visual art, etc.), converges in a very specific way in the act of writing music. It has often led me to explore interdisciplinary fields that have been, and still are, fundamental to many of my projects, especially in the realm of music theatre and opera.
Your music is often described as a perfect synthesis of Arab and classical-Hellenistic culture, combined with the avant-garde language typically associated with Central Europe. Do you identify with these paradigms, or do you feel your language exists in a kind of abstraction?
It’s very difficult for me to speak about my music in those terms. When I address these central themes in my articles, writings, or research, I try to delve into the deeper layers that lie behind and beneath my music—territories I love to explore and uncover, which are incredibly fertile ground for my compositional work. Cultural memory, tradition, and the understanding of these artistic—yet also philosophical and spiritual—realities undoubtedly play an essential role in my musical thinking. My catalog bears clear traces of all this study, research, and, at times, passionate encounters.
Tránsito, your first guitar piece, dates from 1989, and your most recent, OCHRA, from 2021. Looking back, how has your approach to guitar writing evolved?
What’s incredible is that I still find many connections, many aspects that remain present throughout the years. In the recent CD with Giuseppe Mennuti (OCHRA, 2023, Contrastes Records, ed.), I had the opportunity to rediscover the deep connections that certain works maintain with an instrument like the guitar. I was genuinely surprised. It’s a journey that goes deeper and deeper, one of increasingly focused research and refinement over time—one that questions many of the guitar’s expressive possibilities more intensely, and one that reflects more deeply on its aura.
Both in your classical guitar pieces and in works like YAD, you’ve sought to reshape guitar writing, pushing the instrument beyond its traditional limits. In your view, what aspects of the guitar remain unexplored, and what can it still contribute to contemporary music?
I have no idea. What I do know for certain is that in my recent guitar works—those I composed after this CD, and others currently taking shape—the guitar will continue to be at the center, the pivot of my life’s musical path. There are few instruments as infinitely complex and, at the same time, as infinitely profound as the guitar. The challenge of writing for six strings is always a powerful stimulus for self-improvement and inventiveness. It is pure poetry.
Memoria del ocre is your latest work for guitar. It marks the culmination of a process that began with OCHRA and culminated in a performance by Petri Kumela and the Orquesta Sinfónica de Galicia, conducted by Dima Slobodeniuk. Could you tell us more about it?
As with many of my projects for solo instruments and orchestra (I’ve written six concertos so far), I like to approach a solo piece either before or after working on the version with orchestra. In the case of OCHRA, the concerto came first, and from there I developed the solo guitar piece later. That said, there are many variations and modifications, with parts added afterwards—they’re twin works, but not identical. Sometimes the process is reversed: I’ll write a solo piece first, which then gives rise to the version with orchestra.
Memoria del ocre is particularly dear to me, because it brings one of the instruments I love most into the orchestral format. It’s part of a process, but it doesn’t mark the end of anything—I’ve already gone on to compose more for guitar. For example, Sakkara for four guitars, written for the Aleph Gitarrenquartett in Karlsruhe, or Esta nohte amore, for soprano and guitar, dedicated to Jacob Kellermann and Keren Motseri and premiered in Stockholm. Earlier experiences like OCHRA or Memoria del ocre always remain with me as resonances and reference points. They are essential parts of the journey.
The guitar is a “fragile” instrument, capable of reaching extremely sensitive dynamic levels. Yet in works like NADA, Microludios, and Dhatar, it’s the thread that connects the unfolding of the sonic events. Do you think there are particular challenges when writing chamber music with guitar? If so, what are they?
The guitar is an instrument of limitless potential, and at the same time extremely delicate and refined. For me, that’s exactly where its beauty lies—and also the immense challenge of writing well for it. That said, I absolutely love it in chamber music settings, and it’s without doubt the format in which I’ve used the guitar most extensively. Its mere presence in a chamber ensemble decisively influences the writing for all the other instruments.
The dynamic range, of course, has an impact—but even more so do the many layers of resonance it can generate, the subtlety of its articulations, and the variety of timbres that come from numerous non-traditional techniques. And when I speak of non-traditional, I mean the entire expressive spectrum of more original ways of playing the guitar that move beyond the clichés and stereotypes of 19th- and much of 20th-century guitar writing. It is an instrument far richer than a repeated set of standardized forms. For me, that’s where its future lies—and the development of a creative repertoire that will carry it forward into what’s to come.
Originally published in Guitart No. 109
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