...where it starts
Why I'm writing here
I’ve been feeling the need for a quieter space — somewhere to gather thoughts that don’t quite fit into the rhythm of social media.
I don’t want to post more. I want to say more — and less often.
This Substack will be that space. I’ll write here occasionally, when something feels worth sharing. Sometimes about music, sometimes not. But always from a place of reflection.
If you’ve received this via email, it’s probably because you were subscribed to my old mailing list, which I haven’t used in a long time — since around 2018. I’ve brought that list here because this feels like a better home for slow, meaningful updates. If you’re new here, welcome.
To begin, I want to share something like a manifesto. Not definitive — just a way of marking the starting point.
I compose and perform as a way of tracing echoes—of people, gestures, histories, and inner voices. My work is shaped by absence: things left unsaid, undone, or forgotten. I move through a space where memory brushes against noise, and where tradition starts to dissolve into something less certain. I’m not trying to restore what’s lost, but to stay with its resonance.
As a composer, I shift between the intimate and the confrontational. Some pieces whisper—drawn from domestic tension, quiet rituals, or melodies that never quite arrive. Others speak more forcefully, borrowing from metal, jazz, or club music to open up other kinds of memory and conflict. I work with what’s available: prepared pianos, electric guitars, Venezuelan rhythms, broken loops, AI voices. I let the seams show. The glitch, the repetition, the interruption—they’re part of how I try to stay present.
As a performer, I don’t treat interpretation as reproduction. It’s a form of invocation. To play a piece—mine or someone else’s—is to enter into conversation with the hands that shaped it, the silences behind it, and the futures it imagined. I see performance as a way to reframe the past—emotionally, physically, sonically.
Displacement runs through my work. Not as a theme, but as a condition. I’ve lived across languages and places, and my music reflects that: layered, plural, at times disoriented. I draw on the classical tradition, but not without questioning it. I’m interested in what happens when it bends, slips, or fragments.
I want to write music that remembers. Music that forgets. Music that loops, stutters, hesitates. Music that leaves space for others—listeners, collaborators, ghosts—to join the conversation.