A conversation with Hildur Guðnadóttir: ‘The sounds frame the silence, not the other way around!’

(c) Camille Blake

I originally conducted this interview for Rolling Stone Germany. You can read the original article in German here.

Eleven years after her last solo album, Icelandic composer and multi-instrumentalist Hildur Guðnadóttir is releasing her new studio work, ‘Where to From’. To say that a lot has happened in the meantime would be an understatement. The daughter of opera singer Ingveldur Guðrún Ólafsdóttir and composer and clarinettist Guðni Franzson has risen to become one of the most successful film composers of our time – she won an Academy Award, three Grammys, an Emmy and a Golden Globe for Joker. Commercially, of course, this is a remarkable leap from her more avant-garde early days and releases on Touch. Yet the signature style she displayed on her debut Mount A can still be heard time and again in her film work: drones, atonal and modal structures, dark, oppressive moods and dense textures. And again and again: reduction, austerity, tonal economy.

For her new album, Guðnadóttir, who has lived in Berlin for many years, chose a different approach than usual. She waited until song ideas literally imposed themselves on her, then sang them into her mobile phone. She simply didn't want it to be an album that sounded like set pieces from film music, she explains in our in-depth interview. We chat for about an hour in the Universal office – Guðnadóttir is releasing her new work on Deutsche Grammophon – about her work ethic, her approach and her composition process, but also about Oscar wins and why awards should never change the basic idea.

It's been about ten years since your last solo album, and a lot has happened in your career during that time. When did you feel it was time for a new album of your own again?

Well, it's been a really crazy decade. There were several reasons why I didn't release a solo album for so long, and one of the most important was that I had a child. I didn't want to be on tour all the time, so I deliberately took a break from performing. I think it's nice when you can accompany an album with live performances – but I didn't want that at the time.

Now that my son is a teenager – he's thirteen – I felt ready to return to the stage. That was one reason. At the same time, I was of course very busy during those years; I was by no means bored. It's interesting because I came to film music rather by chance. I never intended to become a film composer – it was just one of the things I did. I always wrote my own music, worked in theatre, did installations, played in bands... I did so many different things.

I wanted the music I released as a solo album to really exist outside the film space. I didn't want to release a collection of old, unused fragments of film music, but something that stood on its own. It came from a real need to do it, because it was right for me personally at that moment.

Film work has taken up so much space in my life that I simply didn't have the capacity to give my own album the attention I felt it deserved. I wanted it to be something that existed somewhat outside of the film world.

I've worked on many different ideas over the past ten years and written so much music that I now have a whole stack of things that are, in a sense, queuing up to be released. But I wanted the first release after this big bang – let's call it that – to be truly driven by a personal longing.

When I started working on this record, everything immediately felt right. There was no doubt: this was exactly the music I wanted to make at that moment, the music I desperately wanted to release – and the music I absolutely wanted to play live. It felt like the right time.

That's something I love so much about music: sometimes you just feel that a piece isn't ready to leave the space in which it was created. I can't explain why, but at some point you realise: now is the time. And you have to follow that instinct. Today there are so many releases, so many films, so much art – putting something out just for the sake of releasing it makes no sense to me.

If I understand correctly, you composed some of the pieces in your head while walking or travelling, then sang them into your mobile phone.

Yes and no. The seeds of this music are ideas that came to me completely out of the blue. They didn't come about because I sat down and said, ‘Now I'm going to write music.’ They just come. I see myself more as an observer or a recipient.

It can happen anywhere – when I'm out walking, cycling or picking up my child from school... Sometimes a melody would come to me in the middle of the night, and I had to record it so I could go back to sleep.

I didn't originally make these recordings to turn them into songs, but rather as a kind of audio diary. I wanted to capture the space I was in at that moment – the atmosphere, the moment. And sometimes I just wanted the melody to finally leave me alone. When it kept repeating itself in my head, I thought, ‘Okay, thank you, you've arrived – you can go now.’

I actually have music in my head all the time, and many musicians know this: it never stops. One example is the piece ‘Make Space’: it was a completely normal day, nothing special. I was on my way to pick up my son when suddenly this melody popped into my head. It made me so happy that I jumped around in the street – just me and this invisible music. I found it so strange and yet so beautiful that I recorded it on my mobile phone. To this day, I still find it mysterious where such melodies come from, but it's something wonderful.

(c) Camille Blake

I recorded these little snippets just for myself at the time – to understand the mental and temporal space I was in. Sound recordings have something that words don't have: you can feel time in them. An audio recording is a timeline – rhythm, breath, pauses – everything carries the mood of the moment.

When I listened to these recordings again years later – some of them incomprehensible, whispered in a taxi or secretly in the middle of the night so as not to wake my husband – I found it fascinating that it wasn't just about the melodies or notes, but about the silence between them. These pauses revealed a great deal about my own perception of time, about my longing for slowness. I realised that the notes frame the silence, not the other way around.

And that's something I love so much about music: it can speed up time – give us energy, drive us forward – but it can also slow time down. It creates spaces that are slower. Listening to these recordings, I realised that they expressed a constant longing for deceleration. That became the central theme of the album.

Was this way of simply letting music come, instead of forcing it, a luxury after years of working in film?

Yes, absolutely. In a way, I find it much more interesting to simply observe the music as it emerges, without actively trying to produce it. When you're working on a specific project, with deadlines, expectations, all that pressure – then of course it's exciting too. You have to find ways to stay creative despite these external conditions, to keep the energy alive.

But in this case, it was something else. I just let the music come without controlling it. It felt like I was just perceiving it, not directing it. And because I know exactly how my mind works, how the music sounds inside me, how I normally compose – I know all that. That's why what emerges without my intervention is much more exciting for me.

That's why this process was so beautiful: just letting it happen, without intention. When I recorded this musical diary, I didn't do it with the idea of publishing it or ‘making something of it’. It was pure observation.

And that's exactly what makes it so fascinating for me: it all felt completely natural – the moment it happened, the time I recorded and orchestrated it, and finally, how it came into the world. Nothing was forced – the music brought itself to life.

How old is the oldest fragment on your phone that made it onto the record?

The oldest piece is probably ‘Fólk fær andlit’. I think I wrote it in 2014. It had already been released digitally, so it already had a life of its own in the world. Other musicians have also recorded versions of it, giving the piece an even longer life than I could have given it myself. My own version, however, was never physically released, and I really wanted to give it a home – a release that you can actually hold in your hands. This album was the perfect opportunity for that.

What happened next? So you had lots of sketches – but several musicians play on the record. How did it become a collaborative project?

The actual trigger came quite spontaneously: two of my favourite musicians – Eyvind Kang and Jessica Kenney – live in Los Angeles, and they just happened to be in Europe. They had a few days off in Berlin, and I thought to myself: how wonderful it would be to finally play with them.

Of course, we needed music for that. As I was thinking about what we could play, I remembered those old mobile phone recordings – little sketches, ideas, fragments that I had recorded at some point. I thought: Why not just try out these ideas? Maybe there's something interesting in there.

So I started listening to the old recordings, sorting them and thinking about whether I could form something complete out of them. The deeper I delved, the clearer it became to me that there was a common thread running through the pieces – almost like a train of thought that developed quite naturally from A to B. I selected some of these sketches, rearranged them and developed them further. Of course, it was a big step – from tiny, spontaneous mobile phone recordings to elaborate compositions that can actually be played. But it was incredibly fun to create them, especially knowing that two of my favourite musicians would be recording them with me.

These musical diary entries were in the best of hands with them. It was wonderful to be together in one room, playing, singing, breathing – not just as a composer behind the glass in the recording studio, but right in the middle of the action. Making music together like this was wonderful.

What was the next step – from the mobile phone fragment to the finished recording at Hansa Studio?

I wrote all the arrangements myself at home – every single note. So nothing was improvised, everything was completely on paper. There were practical reasons for this: we didn't have much time, so it was helpful to work with a clear, fixed structure without searching or experimenting. We just wanted to come into this room and play this music, nothing else. So the process was pretty straightforward: first you get an idea, sing it into your mobile phone, leave it for years – and then you come back, write it out, arrange it, expand it, and finally record it at Hansa Studio and mix it.

How long did you record at Hansa?

Not long – three or four days. And everything was recorded live. Really live. No overdubs, no cutting, no touch-ups, no shifting. What you hear is exactly what happened in the room – from A to B.

If everything was notated so precisely, how does this process differ from composing for film projects? Some people write with sheet music, others directly in software – how do you do it?

It always varies for me – it depends on the project, who's playing, how much time we have and what the conditions are. I try never to commit to a single way of working, but to remain open and flexible.

Time is a crucial factor in this. It determines how precisely or openly I write. With this album, I quickly realised that the music wanted something very precise – no blurring, no coincidences. The beginning was completely open and undecided – these small, raw mobile phone recordings, almost formless. Perhaps that was precisely the reason why they later wanted to develop in a very clear, very specific direction.

The finished pieces are extremely precise, and we needed several takes to capture that precision. I wanted to record everything live – without editing, without post-production. Of course, that takes time, and time always influences how you write.

In other projects, when there's more space, I like to work very differently – experimentally, spontaneously, discovering, letting things happen during recording. I like both. It always depends on where, when and what you're recording – and what the music needs at that moment.

When you work on big film projects, how much time do you usually have?

It varies greatly from project to project, but I always try to start as early as possible – usually right after the script is finished, even before filming begins. As a result, I'm often one of the people who works on a film the longest, from the very first draft to the final cut.

For ‘Chernobyl’, for example, I worked on the music for about a year. I really wanted to record in the same power plant where the series was later filmed. The entire score consists exclusively of original recordings from this decommissioned nuclear power plant, which can also be seen in the series. The process was long and involved a lot of work – I listened to every millisecond of the material to find out which sounds were suitable as raw musical material.

It was similar with ‘Joker’. I worked on the first film for about a year and a half, and on the second for almost two years. Of course, the intensity depends on what stage the project is at. But basically, I write from the very beginning so that my music can already be used on set. That's important to me because it allows me to see how the music influences the actors and the atmosphere on set.

Later, during the editing phase, the most intensive compositional work begins – that's when the music is really tailored precisely to the images. I rework existing pieces, write new ones for specific scenes or characters, and further develop the orchestration.

Nowadays, many composers work very differently: they are only hired when the film is almost finished and compose directly to the final cut. Of course, this is much faster, and I understand why it is common practice in the industry.

(c) Camille Blake

But for me, coming from the theatre, the other way feels more right. In theatre, you're involved from the beginning, in rehearsals, discussions, lighting and stage work. You write in response to what's happening in the room. This way of working has shown me how strongly music can shape a story from the beginning – it provides rhythm, atmosphere, movement, a sense of time. In this way, music becomes part of the film's DNA, not an afterthought.

So in a way, you are a co-creator and a fundamental building block of the film. This is a contrasting approach to that of Neil Young, for example, who composed the music for Jim Jarmusch's film Dead Man only after it was completed – improvising alone in the studio directly to the running image.

I also think this process of composing directly to the images is great. There are so many great film scores that were created in exactly this way, and that's really valuable. You feel an immediate connection between the images and the music, a very special musicality and emotional depth. But in the long run, I find this theatrical approach exciting.

I remember your concert in Berlin in 2020, shortly after ‘Chernobyl’ – at Silent Green. A great evening. That's when your big success really took off. At the time, a newspaper wrote that your audience was about to change. Did you feel that way too? Has your audience, the people you might appeal to, changed?

I think so, in a way. When I started releasing and writing music, I initially felt rather on the fringes of it all. Although I originally come from a classical music background, I really came of age in the experimental scene. You don't expect large audiences there – that was never the point. I never wrote music with the aim of becoming famous or rich. That was simply never my motivation.

Of course, something has changed in the meantime. The audience has grown, perhaps also broadened. But at the same time, my own attitude has remained completely the same. My intention when writing is still the same today as it was before, and I protect this inner space very carefully. I'm sensitive about it – I take great care to ensure that no noise from outside intrudes into this creative space.

And although the audience may have changed or expanded a little, the emotional response has remained remarkably similar. People react in the same way – regardless of which audience or target group they belong to. I find that wonderful: this immediate, emotional connection remains, even when external circumstances change. So in a way, not much has changed – only the circle of listeners has grown larger.

It must feel good to be so immensely successful with this kind of music – without the price of stardom that pop stars have to pay, who can no longer move around freely.

Oh yes. Nobody cares so much about composers. I enjoy that very much. I was never someone who sought the limelight.

My favourite place is a room with an instrument – alone, or with a friend who plays with me.

I don't like events or large crowds. That's why Berlin is perfect for me: big enough to be invisible. Even famous people can move around freely here. And hardly anyone recognises me anyway – which is wonderful.

Oscar, Grammy, Emmy: you've won almost everything there is to win. All that's missing is the Tony, then you'd be an EGOT.

Yes, it's funny. The whole world of awards was always completely foreign to me. I didn't even know that ‘EGOT’ was a term. After the Oscar, the director of Chernobyl said to me, ‘Now you're almost an EGOT.’ I thought he meant ‘ego’ – and I replied, ‘No, I'm still the same person!’ I really had no idea what he meant.

You can't let yourself be guided by things like that. If you start creating something just to get money, fame or awards, that's completely the wrong motivation. The really interesting works in the world are often created by people who have never won a single award for them.

One example is David Lynch. I was there when he received the Honorary Oscar. Imagine how much this man has given to art and creativity – he is like an endless fountain of imagination. And yet he didn't care about any of it. When he received the award, he just said, ‘Ah, thank you,’ and walked off the stage. I thought that was great.

I myself made music for 15 years without many people paying attention to it – and I was completely happy with that. I would have continued that way. It was pure coincidence that I eventually received more attention. But I think that when you suddenly receive recognition, you have to be even more aware of why you create in the first place.

When I released this new album – ten years after the last one – I often asked myself: Why, actually? Do I still have anything to say? Haven't I released enough already? There's so much music out there anyway. And then you ask yourself: What is my motivation? What happens when I put something new out into the world – or when I don't?

These questions are important to me. I believe they protect you from being overly influenced by external factors. Because you never have control over how something is received – who hears it, how it is understood or misunderstood. That's why you have to be clear about why you're doing something – for yourself. Only then can you remain calm, regardless of whether someone loves it, hates it or doesn't even notice it. For me, that's the key.

The question: Why am I doing this at all – with all the music that already exists? That's a very interesting question. So what would be a possible answer?

I've been asking myself this question a lot lately – does the world really need more music from me? There's already so much of it out there. But then I realised that this year marks 20 years since I started releasing music – two decades. And I wanted to understand what has happened during that time: who listens to my music? How is it listened to? What purpose does it serve?

Looking back, I noticed something wonderful: many people listen to my music while they are creating something themselves – while painting, writing, researching, programming. Apparently, there are even many scientists who listen to it while they work to help them concentrate. People listen to the same pieces over and over again because they accompany them while they think, feel and create. That touched me deeply and made me feel grateful.

This is precisely what motivated me to release this new album – as a kind of thank you. A sign of appreciation to the people who integrate my music into their own creative lives in this way. Because, if we are honest, the deeper meaning of art is to create movement – to touch people, perhaps even to inspire them to create something themselves.

For me, that's the most beautiful cycle: when one person's work triggers something in another – and that impulse then produces new works. I myself know this feeling well when I am inspired by the work of other musicians, filmmakers or artists. And I hope to be part of this creative feedback loop.

(c) Camille Blake

Especially today, in a world full of fear, violence and destruction, where empathy and compassion are often lacking, it can sometimes seem pointless to just make music. What difference does it make? But when I really think about it, the opposite of destruction is creation. The more people create, listen, feel and remain empathetic, the stronger the counterpoint to this destructive climate becomes.

Maybe that's naive – but it feels better to say something than to remain silent.

And that was ultimately my answer to the question of whether another album was needed: yes, because silence would be worse.

How terrible it would be if, in difficult times of all times, no good art were created anymore!

Exactly. It's an incredibly important question. And I think when you look around today, the environment is so harsh and hostile that you inevitably ask yourself: How can I even make music in a world like this?

There is fear, polarisation and hatred everywhere. People are turning against each other, and coexistence is becoming more difficult. And in this atmosphere, I sometimes find it difficult to find the inner space to write music at all – because it all makes me sad. The wars, the way people talk about refugees, the dehumanisation you feel – all of that touches me deeply. That's precisely why it takes more strength today than it used to to create something. When the language out there is becoming increasingly aggressive, it takes even more effort to counter it with something gentle, empathetic and musical. After much thought, I came to the conclusion that I would release this album anyway – not because I believe it will change the world, but because for me it was the most honest answer to the question: Is what I'm doing pointless? And my answer was: Silence helps even less.

How do you personally deal with this constant stimulation when you are working creatively? We are constantly inundated with news, our nervous system is under constant strain. Do you try to disconnect from the world when you work – or do you consciously include it?

I think that's an incredibly difficult question – and also a very delicate balance. On the one hand, you could just ignore everything, settle into your own little bubble and pretend that everything is wonderful, that everyone is doing well. But in my opinion, that would be irresponsible, because a lot of things are not going well – especially when you look at the situation in the USA. Things are really difficult there at the moment, and since I work there a lot and have many colleagues and friends there, their mood also affects me personally. I can't just ignore it; I have to at least try to understand what's happening.

At the same time, it's incredibly stressful to read the news. Finding that balance – between awareness and feeling overwhelmed – isn't easy, and I don't really have an answer. For the last few years, and certainly since Covid, our nervous systems have been in a constant state of alert. We are trying to function ‘normally’ under exceptional circumstances – while the climate crisis and political instability are becoming increasingly severe. And this affects not only the USA, but almost everywhere in the world.

I think you need a certain amount of awareness without letting it completely take over your life. You can't pretend that none of this is happening – because it is happening. But you also can't let it completely consume you. Of course, all of this affects my music. The political and social situation has increasingly influenced my work in recent years. I try to respond to it – but not by commenting directly on injustices, but by expressing the qualities that I miss.

One example is the piece ‘Fólk fær andlit’. The first words that came to mind were “Mercy” and ‘Forgive us’. Because I feel that this is exactly what is missing at the moment: more empathy.