George Benjamin was once the boy wonder of British classical music. A composer at nine, he became star pupil to Olivier Messiaen in his teens, the youngest ever composer to see his music performed at the Proms while still a student. And then, for a long time, nothing. After a brief stint at Pierre Boulezâs IRCAM institute in the mid-â80s and a single work for electronics and chamber orchestra, âAntara,â transforming the sounds of the panpipes he heard in the square outside the Pompidou Centre in Paris, he wrote barely 30 minutes of music in the following five yearsâand only another couple of hours during the decade that followed.
Then, in 2005, he met Martin Crimp in the restaurant of the Royal Festival Hall on Londonâs South Bank. Benjamin was flustered, eagerly clutching a notebook stuffed with potential opera plots; Crimp, four years older, a string of Royal Court successes already under his belt, confident, laidback. It was Laurence Dreyfus, the American viol player and founder of the Phantasm consort, who introduced them, âand indeed,â Benjamin told me, âwe owe our collaboration entirely to him.â The first fruits of their collaboration, âOn the Little Hill,â premiered the following year. In 2012, they produced their second work, âWritten on Skin,â already now the most widely performed opera of the 21st century. On May 10, the Royal Opera House in London will debut their third opera together, âLessons in Love and Violence.â Reuniting Crimp and Benjamin with director Katie Mitchell and designer Vicki Mortimer, both of whom worked on âWritten on Skin,â âLessons in Love and Violenceâ pits concerns of the heart against those of state in a bloody tale inspired by Elizabethan drama. Amid intensive rehearsals in Covent Garden, Benjamin submitted to our questions via email.

VAN: How do you start a work like âLessons in Love and Violenceâ? Whatâs the first step?
George Benjamin: Once weâve agreed on a subject and Martin [Crimp] has completed every word, I search for a place in his text where I can start composing. Itâs never at the beginning. My musical ideas come from my desire to match the dramatic evolution and architecture inherent in Martinâs text.
Has your relationship with Crimp changed or developed since âWritten on Skinâ? Or, indeed, since âInto the Little Hillâ a decade ago?
Yes, I suppose it has. Our mutual trust has grown over the years, and I search for his guidance while writingâto do with formal issues, or concerning the psychology or intentions of charactersâto a larger extent than before. But there still remains something intangible to me about his gifts, and many of the most important aspects of our collaboration go unmentioned throughout the creative process (and, indeed, afterwards). Â
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What do you think people familiar with âWritten on Skinâ might find most surprising about âLessons in Love and Violenceâ?
Itâs hard for me to say, as the earlier score wasnât a major preoccupation for me while writing this new one. But I suspect the new work has something of a denser degree of invention than its predecessor; maybe itâs more active and less suspended in feel. Its tone is also somewhat darkerâprobably because of the presence of more deep voices, and the orchestral/harmonic environment in which Iâve felt impelled to place them.
What was the most challenging part of putting this new work together?
Writing every new note! While aware of both its immediate presence and its influence on the structure at the largest scaleâŠ
And what was the most enjoyable or exciting part?
âŠwriting the very last note! Though the second half of the third scene involves a fairly complex, large-scale polyphonic structure which was a real challenge.
Do you tend to compose on paper, at the piano, or at your computer? Do you have any particular working habits when youâre composing?
I work all the day, every dayâthough often a week (or more) can go by when Iâm unable to write anything acceptable. Most of my work takes place in my head, though I do use the piano on occasion. I create a vast quantity of sketches before I arrive at the finished result, and I donât use Sibelius or any other computer program. Paper and pencil (and sometimes colored pens) are my preferred tools.
George Benjamin, âPiano Figuresâ; performed by the composer
Whatâs the earliest memory relating to music that comes to mind now?
Hearing âLâAprĂšs-Midi dâun Fauneâ in the very first orchestral concert I attended (aged perhaps seven or eight?) and feeling the temperature in the room seeming to rise mysteriously through the influence of Debussyâs magical sound world.
Were there any particular formative events during your childhood that you now feel pushed you towards a career in composition?
Thereâs another crucial memoryâseeing Walt Disneyâs âFantasiaâ as a young child. I can still recall the thrill that the works by Beethoven, Dukas, Stravinsky and Mussorgsky gave me.
Do you come from a musical family at all? What kind of music do you remember being played in the house or in the car when you were growing up?
My parents loved music, but there werenât any musicians at all in the family. I shared a bedroom with my sister when very young, and remember loving the mid-â60s pop music which she used to play on a small portable radio. That all changed, however, once I returned from the cinema after seeing âFantasia.â
George Benjamin âDream of the Songâ; Bejun Mehta (Countertenor), Daniel Harding (Conductor), SWR Vokalensemble Stuttgart, Orchestre de Paris
What do you think is the most important lesson you learned from your teacher Olivier Messiaen?
Many things, but perhaps above all: âYou have to hear.â For him the most severe musical error for a composer was not to internally imagine every note, rhythm and timbre. He taught innumerable things of the greatest fascination and valueâbut perhaps his greatest lesson was his utterly sweet nature, and the musical values he breathed and lived.
What are the works by other composers that you most enjoy conducting? And in what ways might these works have informed your work as a composer?
Conducting is an activity much further removed from composition than many would imagine. In many ways they are completely disassociate, and yet, of course, there are also substantial overlaps which can be extremely useful to both crafts. I learn from studying and conducting the works I admire and love, and I also learn from the errors I have made in my own scores. Butâas you find me currently shaping my new score in rehearsal with the Royal Opera House OrchestraâI have to admit that conducting is an activity which I love. I relish the direct contact with musicians and sound, though I have to ration my appearances severely in order to maintain time for writing.

You seem to be drawn to stories about magical musicians: âInto the Little Hillâ was based on the story of the Pied Piper, and âWritten on Skinâ features the legendary figure Guillem de Cabestany, even if you changed him to an illuminator of manuscripts. Do you believe music has magical powers?
Yes, absolutely, though that is far from an original thought. Music has an extraordinary power to transcend time and provoke the deepest emotion; yet in essence itâs weightless, transient and invisible. This phenomenon seems to be both mysterious and poignant. ¶
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