How to write an opera

by Andrei Maksimov

As Beethoven once said, “Music is the mediator between the spiritual and the sensual life.” This profound insight captures the essence of my approach to composition. Every motif, every harmony must evoke a reaction in me—a smile, a tear, or a moment of profound reflection. This deeply personal approach to composition inevitably leads my listeners into the realm of my musical upbringing, which has profoundly inspired everything I write. My understanding of music has been shaped by years of study and immersion in the traditions of the St. Petersburg Conservatory, alongside the enduring influence of the great composers whose works I admire.

I come from a family of musicians. My mother, grandmother, aunt, and uncle all graduated from conservatories: my mother and grandmother as music theorists, my aunt and uncle as violinists. Growing up in the Soviet Union, their views on music were deeply rooted in tradition. The musical landscape of my childhood was carefully curated; my days were filled with the sounds of Mozart, Beethoven, Chopin, and Scriabin. My mother often played the piano, and I would wake up to Chopin waltzes and fall asleep to the intricate counterpoint of Bach. This rigid yet rich musical horizon left little room for exploration outside the classical canon.

I vividly remember discovering an audiocassette with Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana, which had been partially overwritten with recordings related to my mother’s work. Captivated, I listened to it repeatedly until my mother, deeming it "bad music," confiscated the cassette. She urged me to focus on what she considered "serious" composers. Opera and chamber vocal music were also absent from our household, deemed too complex for a child. This changed when my early aptitude for singing became evident. Singing, I felt, was the purest expression of my musical experiences.

From an early age, I displayed perfect pitch. At four, I remember crying because I couldn’t match a note with my voice; my vocal apparatus was not yet mature enough. During piano lessons at music school, I often sang along, much to the annoyance of my teachers. Inspired by Glenn Gould, I thought it was natural to vocalize my musical thoughts, only to learn that few could pull this off without criticism. After much debate and a brief foray into violin studies, I transitioned to the choir department at the conservatory, where my high treble voice found its place. I was finally able to channel my musical emotions more freely, earning appreciation from my peers and instructors.
One transformative moment occurred when I visited my choir director’s home. She played a video of Bizet’s Carmen, and I was instantly captivated by the opera's expressive richness and dramatic power. At just eight years old, I was conducting the final act in front of the television. This experience ignited my passion for opera. I began asking my mother to take me to the theater and to buy vocal music cassettes. By the age of eleven, I was the principal soloist in the largest children’s choir in St. Petersburg, firmly set on a path toward opera—though the specifics were yet to be determined.
I graduated from the St. Petersburg Conservatory, where I immersed myself in the rich traditions of Russian music and honed my craft as a composer. It was there that I began composing my first serious works, predominantly for choir. While these early pieces were not groundbreaking, they marked the start of my journey as a composer. Encouraged by colleagues, I continued writing, gradually refining my craft and exploring the alchemy of transforming ideas into musical texts.

The choral music surrounding me during this time sharpened my ability to hear and dissect individual voices within complex textures. At symphony concerts, I trained myself to pick out the melodies of flutes, double basses, and French horns. This skill deepened further during my time at the Mariinsky Theatre’s youth opera program, where I joined at seventeen. It was there that I composed my first opera for children, Kolobok, based on a Russian folktale. Although it was never performed, it provided a valuable opportunity to explore musical dramaturgy and begin developing a personal style.

In opera, I have always sought a balance between simplicity and complexity. This duality underpins the enduring appeal of the great operas—from Mozart’s Da Ponte trilogy to Strauss’s Der Rosenkavalier. Without this piercing clarity, the intricate fabric of musical theatre risks unraveling. From the outset of my compositional career, I have strived to tell stories in ways that are both profound and accessible. My first opera was less successful in achieving this balance, largely because I had to write the libretto myself. This experience underscored the importance of collaboration and the synergy between text and music in creating compelling opera.

This lesson bore fruit when I was commissioned to write an opera based on my partner’s father’s play, Barabbas. With a professional libretto by Vladimir Alkhovik and an English translation by Helen Daniels, the process was vastly different from my earlier endeavors. I began composing Barabbas in St. Petersburg and completed it in Bern. Initially, I feared that the sheer volume of material might dilute the excitement and emotional core I sought to capture. Yet, I believe the result reflects a maturation of my style. The opera evolves—its clarity and complexity intertwining as the narrative progresses. This mirrors my vision of contemporary times: a world where boundaries blur and where good and evil exist in shades of gray, driving the arc of history forward.
Now, I live and compose in Vienna, a city steeped in the legacy of Mozart, Beethoven, and Strauss. This environment is both humbling and inspiring. To walk the streets where these masters once lived and worked, and to hear their music performed in the very halls they graced, infuses my creative process with renewed energy and perspective. Vienna, with its unparalleled musical heritage, has deepened my understanding of how tradition and innovation can coexist, shaping my voice as a composer.

The music of Barabbas does not adhere to a single style; instead, it embraces a spectrum, reflecting the eclecticism of the present. As Leonard Bernstein once said, “A work of art does not answer questions, it provokes them; and its essential meaning is in the tension between the contradictory answers.” In Barabbas, I sought to capture the uncertainty and anguish of a people navigating a tumultuous era—themes that resonate profoundly with the political landscape of modern Europe.
Every step of my journey as a composer has been an exploration of my capacity to convey emotion, story, and truth through music. I now understand that the synthesis of text, voice, and orchestration is a lifelong pursuit. And while my path began with Chopin waltzes and Mozart arias, it has led me to a place where I can tell stories that are as complex and multifaceted as the world we inhabit. As Gustav Mahler said, “Tradition is not the worship of ashes, but the preservation of fire.”