When I meet with the Danish Composer Neils Rønsholdt on a scorching summer afternoon in Copenhagen, he has a kind of crackle of excitement about him. He’s just come from a rehearsal for another piece but he’s in town to prepare for the premiere and subsequent two-day run of his new opera, The Last Rites, at the Copenhagen Opera Festival. Normally, Rønsholdt resides in Aarhus where he is an associate professor in composition at the Royal Academy of Music. It is very clear that Rønsholdt is eager to share this work with his audience but until he can he has to make do with me and the question I could generate on the basis of the programme description.

On the twenty-second of June,
At exactly four o’clock,
Bombs were dropped on Kyiv, they announced to us
That the war had begun.

In the Soviet Union everyone knew these lines. One of the few sincere, and at the same time unceremonious songs was created in the first days of the so-called »Great Patriotic War« by the poet Boris Kovyniev. In fact, he wrote lyrics set to the melody of a new waltz, Blue Scarf. In the USSR it was somehow inconvenient to remember that Siniy platochek was the work of two Poles – Jerzy Petersburski (music) and Stanisław Laudan (lyrics). Both versions – Siniy platochek and On the Twenty-Second of June – were sung to us by our grandmothers instead of lullabies, which is why from childhood we knew the exact date of the Nazi air invasion of the USSR. 

Kateryna Zavoloka: »I will never be a political or social artist«

Zavoloka: »When Russia invaded in 2014 [annexation of Crimea], I thought I had to somehow say no, and used the samples I collected to make an album with the sounds of the revolution. It was a kind of answer to what's going on in my life. I will never be a political or social artist.«

»Vilna« from the album Volya was recorded during the Maidam Revolution in 2014 and consists of recordings of burning police cars, sounds from street fights and exploding grenades and Molotov cocktails. »Volya« means freedom.

Mit køn er ikke. Min krop er ikke. Mit køn betyder. Min krop betyder. Mit køn betyder ikke. Min krop betyder ikke. Mit køn er. Min krop er. Min krop er en kvindelig komponist, musiker, sangskriver og tekstforfatters. 2021. Jeg er 47 år gammel og med alderen konstateret, vandrer tankerne videre ind i sindet og de personlige omgivelser, selv samme sind smyger sig rundt i derinde. Jeg stopper op og ved ikke, om jeg skal beskrive dette. Om det har relevans for denne  tekst om mit ståsted i musikken. Om mit køn. Krop. De fysiske arbejdsforhold. Må jeg tale om  børnene? Om alt det der væltede ud af mig. Musik, blod, sæd, børn. Det skabte. Det der skaber.  Hvorfor skriver jeg nu om dette? Hvorfor siger jeg det højt med skriften og kigger afventende på  reaktionen? Jeg gør det her. Hvad sker der så? Jeg tager tøjet af og viser kvindekroppen. Igen og igen. Jeg bestemmer, hvornår den skal vises frem. Jeg bestemmer i hvilken sammenhæng. Jeg bestemmer over min krop. Min krop er. I trods. Ligesom barnets sind går i trods, tager det hele ud i ekstremer, og den utæmmede fantasi står lige bag mig og hvisker i mit øre. Det er sætninger, der ikke giver nogen som helst form for mening. Faktisk er det afgørende, at jeg ikke forstår dem. Man lægger et løg i hånden til en koncert med et Big Band. Bagefter. Man gør det først bagefter. Når alt  står på rækker, fortolker jeg på mig selv og mine omgivelser.

Gender balance in the music and dance scene, respectively, is still very skewed. With a predominance of male musicians and female dancers, we as drummers and dancers therefore have very different experiences in terms of perception of gender and bodies. In our constellation, however, we have a feeling that we have escaped the typical notions and expectations of gender, and we, as Meshes, have therefore not yet dealt directly with questions about this. A blind spot in our practice? Or something we are generally exhausted from dealing with? The invitation to the publication here has thus set some thoughts in motion, and with the gender glasses on, we will again relate to the relationship between our two media, dance and drums, and to how our social relationships affect our artistic practice.

Over the past year, I have thought a lot about what the physical space means for my work. My boyfriend usually leaves for work Monday through Friday, and then I have the whole apartment to myself. 

Sometimes I sit in the study at my desk with the electric piano to my left. In front of me hangs a bulletin board with detached notes I have written on small notes and hung up between postcards and other small items. To the right is the filing cabinet with paper, sheet music and old notes.

Other times, it seems like the workplace is full of expectations I can not live up to: here I have to be a diligent, focused person who does what she sets out to do. So I sit down in the living room instead. Sitting at the dining table or in the armchair and looking out the window. If not I'm just doing something completely different – there's always something practical you can fix instead. Laundry, dishes, shopping. Later I go back to the study again.

Since 2017, we have been living in an apartment in Copenhagen's Nordvest Quarter. Before that, we had spent several years travelling, as we had been doing different residencies and studies abroad. From this travel experience, it has been necessary for us to work in very different rooms and spaces, collapsing an artist studio into the space of a suitcase. This has impacted our work in various ways, for example, during a performance tour in Japan, Ragnhild worked with the suitcase format, as she designed an instrument that precisely fit into the weight and measurements of international air travel. 

She has to listen to man-splaining on a daily basis when buying materials in the local hardware store

We both began our studies at the Jutland Art Academy in Aarhus in 2007. Since then, we have played together in our band Måske bare musik (Maybe Just Music). Our approach back then was an experimental investigation of sounds through play, without thinking - just play and see what happens…and it still is today, 14 years later. Since the beginning, we have been working with four constraints:



1) never play in the same place twice

2) everything, rehearsals as well as concerts, is improvised

3) always take a photo of the place and the setup

4) everything is recorded

How do you experience that gender and bodies are important in your artistic work?

It is most often in the meeting with the outside world, for example in a meeting with a journalist, that I experience that my gender matters. Here, for example with the band Selvhenter, we always get questions that relate to the fact that we are women. And it is especially through the conversations that have subsequently arisen in the group that I have become aware of how to tackle the outside world's view of being a woman and a musician/composer. For example, we have come up with a strategy where we ask the journalist back: »What do you mean when you say feminine?« Or: »What do you mean by masculine sound?« The terms feminine and masculine are used as if we all understand what they represent, but I find it very vague. I think it is more fruitful to talk about experiences, sound, art or energy without giving it a gender, e.g. to talk about something 'open', 'outgoing' or 'calm' instead of saying masculine or feminine. I am often irritated by the fact that what we have to talk about to journalists always relates to gender and not just to the music itself.. I would very much like to talk about the music and the thoughts behind it and not spend all my time talking about gender. 

For the last 25+ years, I have mostly worked with improvisation and composition in a hybrid and fluid field that can contain elements of free / experimental jazz, electronic, noise, new compositional music, etc.

My practice in improvisation ranges from 'free' improvisation to varying degrees of structured or conceptual improvisation: ie. a mixture of predefined and 'free' elements. 'Free' is in quotation marks, for no improvisation is ever completely free, even if it is free from following a score and free from certain style norms and rules. Contemporary improvisational music is also called instant composing, real-time composition , etc. I use improvisation in this text. My approach to improvisation is closely intertwined - or rather entangled - with my work with slow composition.