César Camarero (*1962) is one of the most active composers on the Spanish contemporary scene. Poetry, literature, cinema, travel: his music provides the backdrop for the diverse experiences that have shaped his career. Winner of the National Music Prize in 2006, César Camarero has devoted significant attention to the guitar, both in solo and chamber settings. This dialogue is the perfect opportunity to delve deeper and explore the world of the Madrid-born composer.
What is your relationship with the guitar? When did you start becoming interested in its repertoire?
I started with music, like many in my generation, by playing electric guitar when I was 14. Later, I began studying classical guitar as a way to improve my technique and gain more resources. Shortly after, I started listening to contemporary music and also began studying piano, already with the idea of becoming a composer. So I know the classical repertoire and played some of the fundamental works as a teenager, and I also became familiar with contemporary works very early.
Your works for solo guitar (Luz Azul, Solo, Caligrafía) were written between 1995 and 2001. It’s interesting to see how they were developed in different places (in fact, in the 1990s you were in Italy). How did these experiences influence the creation of the works?
Luz Azul is a work written for my friend, the great guitarist Stefano Cardi; I composed it shortly after returning from Rome, but I don’t think the locations matter much in this case. When I wrote Caligrafía, I was already living in Seville… It’s hard for me to think that places have any kind of influence on what I write; if they do, it’s completely involuntary. Of course, everything influences you, and living in a place like Rome even more, but I honestly don’t see anything quantifiable. In fact, when I wrote Luz Azul, I had the idea of transferring some aspects of flamenco guitar to contemporary guitar; there’s even some flamenco toque, and I wrote it for a Roman guitarist after spending a year in Rome. I also remember that, at the time I wrote Luz Azul, I had visited a fantastic retrospective of the artist Yves Klein at the Reina Sofía Center, which in some way was a stimulus for the composition.
How has your writing developed over the six years spanning the composition of the different pieces?
As I often say, I try to put all my effort into composing and not so much into analyzing what I do. I find it interesting to analyze a work in depth, but highlighting separate elements is very complicated, and I think a bit dangerous: one might assume that the things I point out are important when they may not be that significant. Over those years, the change is not essential; before and after, yes. In fact, very similar elements can be seen in all three works.
When writing, you often use poetry as a reading key to present the elements you will introduce. Who are the poets, and how do they characterize these works?
There is a series of poets who interest me a lot and who, in some way, have “shown” me many things that have “served” me when composing. The most notable:
Vicente Huidobro
Alejandra Pizarnik
Juan Eduardo Cirlot
Rosemarie Waldrop
And others like Juan Larrea, Paul Celan, Circe Maia, Menchu Gutiérrez, and a few more.
The relationship with poetry is very hard to explain, and normally there isn’t a direct connection between a work and a specific poem (unless it’s a piece that sets a certain poem to music, with or without voice)… it’s complicated… I could say that they taught me an idea of non-causality, that music can be assembled (like a poem) with heterogeneous elements that relate in non-obvious ways, although saying it like this seems very poor; the topic could fill an entire lecture, which I’m not sure I would want to give.
The influence of poetry often occurs on an intuitive, irrational level, which, precisely for that reason, eludes any explanation. What I have done many times is to place a poem instead of the typical program note, or read a poem before the work, as an intuitive suggestion, which for me feels much more authentic than the typical miniature analysis.
I should also say again that I’m not very interested in analyzing what I do; I feel light-years away from those composers who talk about their work as if they were musicologists. Although I am interested in analyzing a work in depth —I have done it many times in courses— this is something completely different: an analysis for composers, not for the public. I’ll also cite my admired Barnett Newman once more, who said, “Aesthetics is to artists what ornithology is to birds.”
Recently, in an interview, you declared that chamber music is what most excites your interest. The guitar is present in some of your most important works, such as 37 maneras para mirar un vaso de agua (2011) or the more recent Idénticos antecedentes (2014). Considering the guitar as an instrument with sound, technical, and volume capacities very different from the others, how did you manage to “include” it in the pieces?
The guitar in an ensemble seems particularly interesting to me, as it carries such a special timbre, although it is complicated to use it with instruments that have much more power. In both works, I included the guitar not only because I was interested in the timbral blend, but also because the fantastic guitarist Francisco Bernier was involved; it was also an orchestration challenge, which always stimulates me, especially in Idénticos antecedentes, which is for mezzo-soprano, G flute, piano!!! and guitar. I should also say that 37 maneras para mirar un vaso de agua is one of my works that I like the most, even today.
We are living in a period of transformation for contemporary guitar. Many current composers write for electric guitar, and ensembles maintain the instrument as a fixed component of their groups. Do you think there could be a connection between your music and electric guitar?
I have never written for electric guitar; honestly, I have nothing against it, nor particularly in favor. It seems to me a perfectly interesting instrument, like a clarinet or a piano.
We have previously talked about the relationship between poetry and music. Do you think there can be a connection between prose and music?
Of course, I believe there are, or can be, very interesting relationships at many different levels between all artistic manifestations. If we look at twentieth-century history, Picasso and Stravinsky had points of contact, as did Schoenberg and Kandinsky; much has already been written about this.
In my case, cinema has been very important: your great Fellini, who still amazes me, Buñuel, the early films of Saura, or David Lynch, are fundamental references for me from when I was a teenager. Also the visual arts: Yves Klein or Miró, as well as Rothko, Anish Kapoor, and others.
Years ago, I gave a lecture at the Faculty of Fine Arts in Bilbao about the relationship between music (my music) and the visual arts, and it was a long lecture. I have also spoken in composition courses about one of my works for dance, INSTRUCCIONES PARA DEJARSE CAER AL OTRO LADO DEL VACÍO, for a 23-piece chamber orchestra. This work, and some others from that period, is, among many other things, a formal investigation derived from reading The Alexandria Quartet by Lawrence Durrell, which, for those who haven’t read it, works a bit like Tarantino’s Pulp Fiction. As I Lay Dying by Faulkner also taught me a lot.
This is speaking of prose. I believe the artist is a kind of container-digestive apparatus that processes almost anything: other arts, scientific dissemination, philosophy, personal experiences, etc. So there are all kinds of cross-references and back-and-forth influences.
In an article dedicated to Luis De Pablo, we had the opportunity to analyze the development of Spanish avant-garde music in the twentieth century. Nowadays, although financial resources are limited, in many cities its dissemination is greater than in past years, thanks to festivals, conferences, and ensembles. What do you think about new Spanish music? Which composers attract your attention the most?
For many years now, there has been a large number of highly talented composers, and indeed, despite the difficulties, thanks to the great effort of a few people, quite a few concerts are organized. As I get older, I personally tend to surround myself only with what truly “transforms” me and with which I have a special affinity, regardless of whether it is contemporary music or older works. I mean that with age, I am only interested in what relates to my personal search, although I recognize and enjoy the talent of composers whose approaches are different from mine.
I had a great friendship with José Luis de Delás, who passed away a couple of years ago; for me, he was a fundamental reference. I am also particularly interested in the music of Mario Davidovsky, also an American of that generation, who left us last summer. Of course, Morton Feldman is fundamental for me. And among the composers of my generation, there are many very good ones; I will only mention two names, José Manuel López and Fabián Panisello, although I could name many more.
After a long break from the guitar, you returned to write Transparente, vacío, ciego, alado, a work dedicated to the Cuarteto de Guitarras de Andalucía. How did this collaboration come about?
A couple of years ago, Francisco Bernier told me he was going to release a recording of my work Luz Azul, which we had made in 2011 and had remained unedited. The result was so, so good that I told Bernier we had to collaborate again in some way. We immediately thought of a guitar quartet, an ensemble that seems particularly attractive to me. I would write another work for a guitar quartet tomorrow. And also for the Cuarteto de Guitarras de Andalucía. The collaboration has been very intense, and I think the result is frankly interesting.
Has anything changed in this work compared to those you have written previously for guitar?
In my music, for many years now, there has been a dialectic between a form of composition that we could call “organic” (more related, perhaps, to prose) and another more related to the poetic (as I understand it). Luz Azul is an excellent example of the first (organic), and this new work for quartet Transparente, vacío, ciego, alado (or ABREVIATURAS, or 37 MANERAS DE MIRAR UN VASO DE AGUA) is an excellent example of the second, although, of course, there is a bit of both forms in each work, in different proportions, if we can use the language like that.
Transparente, vacío, ciego, alado delves into non-causality and the use of “suspended” time. In any case, these kinds of reflections don’t interest me much or little; in a work there are many elements: ways of assembling, poetic, intuitive, rational aspects, complex relationships between heterogeneous elements, etc., and these reflections always seem to remain on the surface.
Was it difficult to write for four instruments so similar to each other?
It wasn’t difficult; it was strange, since we are used to a different kind of ensemble. But once I found the type of musical processes that (for me) fit perfectly with four guitars, it wasn’t very difficult (although composing is never easy).
Years ago, during our last conversation, you told us you intended to “read the complete works of Wallace Stevens, analyze Haydn’s last symphonies, deepen your yoga practice, which I have been doing for years, listen to a lot of music calmly… and perhaps compose something.” And now, do you have any future projects?Listening to music calmly applies to the immediate future (I hope). I am listening a lot to Maderna, Jean Barraqué, Berg, Debussy, and many other things. I now have some commissions, especially one for the Zahir Ensemble, in a large format, with soprano and baritone. I also have new musical theater projects, following the results of my latest works ES LO CONTRARIO and CÓMO SUBIR UNA ESCALERA SIN PELDAÑOS.
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