I met the composer Rebecca Saunders in her Berlin studio on a bright afternoon last week. Her new score was taped up around the wall; a page detached itself and floated to the ground. We started by talking about how we were not going to talk about her experiences as a women composer. “It’s an irritating and more than often a pretty stupidly phrased question,” she said. “As if gender defines me and my music. Sexuality perhaps could be a far more exciting theme.”Still, she added, “This is pretty much a patriarchal art form—conservative. We’re talking whisky, cigars, bald patches, beards.” I have both, I said. “Maybe you’ll be OK,” she answered.
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