“Classical composition cannot be taught.”

When the composer Andrew Norman said this to me during my Juilliard audition, I wasn’t sure what to make of it. Especially coming from someone who was actively teaching composition at one of the most respected conservatories in the world, it seemed outright contradictory. My instinct was to push back: What about theory, counterpoint, orchestration? Surely those are teachable.

And of course, they are. That was my initial reaction too. But over time, I’ve come to see that Norman’s statement wasn’t about the craft—about the techniques and skills that every composer must develop. Rather, he was pointing toward something deeper: the part of composition that can’t be reduced to method or technique. The part that asks, What should music be?

I.

A swiss-army knife of ideologies, 21st-century classical music finds itself at an unprecedented crossroads. Never before has the field been represented by such a diverse array of musical ideologies. On the surface, this may seem like an enviable situation—a playground of boundless creativity. Two decades ago, the landscape of "serious" classical music was dominated by the severe geometries of process-based and mathematical composition. Think of the stereotypical “contemporary music” paradigm—dense, atonal, and impenetrable. But today, a multitude of counter-movements have arisen, each staking a claim to seriousness while embracing contrasting aesthetics. We live in an era where postmodernist reverberations of Stockhausen’s Gruppen, with its playful antiphony, coexist alongside the minimalist tapestries woven by Philip Glass, Steve Reich, and David Lang. Meanwhile, the architectural grandeur of John Corigliano’s Symphony No. 1 and the narrative profundity and ideological fusions of Unsuk Chin’s Cello Concerto - from Ligeti-esque sonorism to traditional Korean folk music - (both of which I will expand on) continue to expand the emotional and structural possibilities of our music.

Classical music has, in essence, become an umbrella term—a nesting doll of disparate practices and philosophies. It’s a thrillingly heterogeneous ecosystem where everything from post-Beethovenian heroism to absurdism and extremism can be deemed “serious.” In this landscape, the artist is truly liberated. Anything seems possible.

With this creative pluralism comes the necessity to preserve the authenticity of the composer’s voice. In an age where cultural guidelines are disintegrating and aesthetic norms are fragmenting, the challenge for the teacher is not just to instruct but to nurture individual expression without imposing their own biases. And, vitally, to safeguard the authentic voices of emerging composers, teachers must first acknowledge and confront their normative biases.

I now realize that when Andrew Norman said that we couldn't teach composition, he wasn’t referring to the countless counterpoint exercises, or exhausting every fugal technique—in other words, he wasn’t referring to the craft, developing the toolbox necessary for the composer to bring out their vision, but rather to the music itself. He was referring to composing music, and what that means to the student specifically. The craft of composition must certainly be taught; the toolbox necessary to bring out one’s vision can be developed through rigorous study and practice. But the vision itself—the answer to the question: What should music be?—must be navigated and challenged by the student on their own course.

II.

To give an idea of what I mean when I ask—What should music be? —let me be frank about my own musical tastes. By no means is my nominal view some objective approach to composition, but I am drawn to music that is, at its core, a vehicle for emotion and storytelling. My favorite pieces treat emotionality and storytelling as their guiding principles, their grounding ideology, and thus using intellectual rigor as a means, not an end, to amplify narrative power. In Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 31 in A-flat major, Op. 110—quite possibly my favorite work of art, period—I find this approach is masterfully realized.

Observe the episode at the end of the third movement, starting with the optimistic fugue on the inversion. The fugue slowly unravels from the constraints of counterpoint, eventually bursting into an ecstatic chorale that stretches across the entire keyboard. The emotional trajectory is unmistakable, a universal narrative that transcends cultural and linguistic barriers. Yet, it is Beethoven’s intellectual mastery—the systematic dismantling of a fugue’s architecture, the diminution of the subject into rhythmic ecstasy, and the euphoric release into chorale—that gives this storytelling its ineffable power. It is this marriage of emotional directness and intellectual complexity that moves me to tears.

With a more contemporary example, Unsuk Chin’s Cello Concerto, particularly the first movement titled “Aniri” (likely a nod to the traditional Korean form of narrative singing, Pansori), embodies this ideological framework through a cross-cultural lens. In the final passage, the cello embarks on a haunting descent through delicate artificial harmonics, accompanied by fragmented, fluttering orchestral textures. The imagery is striking—like a feather spiraling slowly into an abyss, surrounded by whispers and sinister murmurs lurking in the shadows. Suddenly, the orchestra erupts in a cataclysmic fff chord, releasing an explosion of sound akin to a supernova. In the aftermath, the cello scatters rapid, fragmented notes, reminiscent of stardust dispersing through the cosmos. Yet, this vivid narrative is anchored in Chin’s deep engagement with classical tradition, most notably inherited from her teacher, György Ligeti. The shadowy orchestral figures echo Ligeti’s signature technique of treating large ensembles as a unified “super instrument”—in this case, embodying the darkness itself. It is through this sophisticated intellectual approach that Chin weaves a narrative as emotionally compelling as it is conceptually profound.

This is my normativity. But not everyone will agree, nor should they. The richness of today’s musical landscape lies precisely in its multiplicity of perspectives. This is precisely why the role of the teacher is so precarious. In the hierarchical dynamic of student and mentor, the student—be it out of fear, lack of confidence, etc. —unconsciously adopts the teacher’s artistic beliefs as a default “correct” approach. This tacit authority can stifle the student’s nascent voice, especially in an era that demands aesthetic self-definition. So, in essence, Andrew Norman got this part of my interview right. The fundamental question of what music should be, vital in necessitating and cultivating an authentic voice in the infant composer, cannot be taught. At least directly.

III.

So by directly, I mean almost a superimposition of aesthetic preference and ideological reverence onto the student without their input. However, what I do believe is that the teacher is at their best when they teach musical principles and music itself that they are most enthusiastic about. For a teacher to recognize their own normative opinions of what music should be is essential to spreading said enthusiasm to the young and malleable student, as that passion is often more than palpable. So, now it sounds like I am contradicting myself. How can it be that a teacher must teach their own navigated and found course through the sea of 21st century classical music, but remain patient and understanding of the student's own compositional course?

Perhaps teaching, and not preaching. Guiding, providing their own perspectives, the toolbox they have cultivated over the years in pursuit of , and not forcing it into the student’s vocabulary. Share your vision, but invite your students to challenge it. Allow them to experiment in a sandbox of ideas, to absorb what resonates, and to reject what doesn’t. In this sandbox, creativity flourishes, and the young composer’s forest, along with the trees, begins to grow.

I will give the anecdote of the aforementioned Unsuk Chin, and her late mentor, Gyorgi Ligeti. Ligeti had the reputation of being, to put it lightly, a tyrant of a teacher. Many students recount horror stories of his treatment as a teacher, from ripping their weeks of work into shreds, throwing it into the trash, and demanding them to start over, to telling a young composer that they do not have what it takes to become a musician. 

Unsuk Chin was rightfully equally frightened as she was enthused about studying with him. And from her first few lessons, she experienced that harshness and brutality of his pedagogy. However, it was all in good faith. Unsuk Chin found herself uniquely enthusiastic about the Darmstadt movement in Germany, as well as electronic music, Korean folk music, the operas of Stravinsky, etc. This was the normativity that she was. Ligeti, instead of force feeding his own approaches to composition, used his expertise and enthusiasms as a guiding force, as a binding agent to combine her enthusiasms into beautifully realized works that synthesize both a deeply sensible emotionality and neurotically precise level of craft. She spun works like her first Violin Concerto—which she won the prestigious Grawemeyer Award at a ridiculously young age—using Ligeti’s own violin concerto as a model, but injecting her own voices and enthusiasms into.

Further, the beauty is that all of Ligeti’s student, from Unsuk Chin, Hans Abrahamsen, etc. are all faring their own and acute courses within the sea of pluralism that is 21st century classical music. Yes, within each of their respective works one might notice the thread of Ligeti’s ideological touch woven in the fabrics of their great pieces—from thoughts of sonorism, micropolyphony, and reaching extremes—but within those guiding principles, what Ligeti was so passionate about, each of his students were encouraged to tap into their nascent excitements.

Classical music may now be a vast and fragmented landscape, but in that fragmentation lies a profound opportunity: the chance for every artist to redefine their own paradigm of artistic “seriousness.” If approached with sensitivity and philosophical openness, the diversity that threatens to overwhelm contemporary composition can instead become its most potent source of vitality. If music is to remain a living, evolving art form, we must equip students to define their own aesthetic universes while providing them with the intellectual tools to bring those visions to life.

Using the forest and trees metaphor, the trees—counterpoint exercises, harmonic theory, the nuts and bolts of musical craftsmanship—are of course indispensable. The means to bring out the music you love will always be this classically backed technique. But the forest must remain ever in sight: to create music that matters. And what is music? It is, ultimately, whatever the student wants it to be. The first conversation between teacher and student should always be about purpose, about why one feels compelled to create sound in the first place.

So, in our beautifully fractured moment, it is more important than ever for the young composer to become their own critic. In a world flooded with aesthetic claims, ideologies, and sonic data, the challenge is to listen—not through the ears of your teacher, nor through the weight of social expectation—but through your own. Close your eyes. Listen. When something makes you lean forward, makes your pulse quicken—that is your path. Follow it. Discover why it moves you. No one can hand you that map. Only you can.

The role of the teacher is not to give you that feeling, but to teach you how to grasp it—to put it into form, into sound, into motion. You must decide what music is for you. What brings color to your world. What makes you dance, cry, sing, laugh. That is your truth.

When you sit down to write those strange dots and beams on the five-lined page, watch the story unfurl. The dense forest of symbols and Italian markings hides within it the contents of your subconscious. If your teacher offers something golden—take it and run. Spill some behind if you must. And if your forest and your teacher’s align? Then you are doubly lucky. But no matter the case, you must walk your own path.

After wrapping up my final interview of the day with Andrew Norman, I climbed into a cab waiting outside Lincoln Center. As the opera house receded behind me, his words stayed—reminded me that no mentor, however wise, can chart your course through this fractalized sea. They can only offer the vessel—the rest is yours to navigate.

It’s a strange kind of liberation, and a lonely, but vital one. But in that ambiguity lies the artist’s power. The power to listen. To choose. To create.