A conversation with Margaret Hermant

Photo © Julie Calbert

In this interview we meet Margaret Hermant, composer and performer. Her work moves between instrumental writing, electronics, and studio-based sound design, with a strong focus on gesture and space. In this conversation, Hermant reflects on the hybrid role of the contemporary composer and on the continuity between composing, producing, and performing—often shaped through collaboration.

Discover more about Margaret Hermant on her official website and follow her work on Instagram and Spotify.

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Today, the role of a composer is more complex than ever: it’s no longer only about writing, but also about working across different dimensions such as production, technologies, and collaboration. Do you identify with this “hybrid” description? How do these multidimensional choices shape your practice?

I had already reflected on this, and it’s one reason why I started composing later than many people. I don’t feel fluent with computers — I don’t have an intuition for them or an ease with electronics, pedals, and all of that. At the same time, I really understand this kind of music: I like it, and I know very precisely what I want to hear — it’s clear in my head. But when you already hear something internally, it becomes difficult to spend hours struggling with tools you don’t feel comfortable with, fixing things, setting up pedals, and making everything work.

That’s why I work with Fabien Leseure. He’s a professional in these technical aspects, but he also understands music and can write. I began composing with electronics more seriously only later, because I needed to find someone I could collaborate with — someone I could work with in mutual understanding — so I could stay inside my intuition and inner world and still work efficiently, with results that come more quickly.

In composition, I can lose the music I carry inside me if I get stuck fixing technical issues. Sometimes you have to let go — like on stage, or in improvisation — and allow yourself to go wherever it leads, to explore things you’ve never explored before. It’s not about reproducing something; it’s about being connected to what is around you and to what you want to express.

Before meeting Fabien, it was hard for me to build that strong connection because of my difficulties with electronics. Now it’s a joy: I can truly be myself as a composer, connect with these feelings, and share them. And Fabien has his part — he also has a compositional role, because when you manipulate and produce sound, you are part of that universe. That’s why it’s difficult to say, “this is my composition.” I always say, “this is what we did” — what we shared together in that moment, for that piece, for whatever we had to compose. That is the magic of collaborating with someone who really understands how the techniques work, how to fix things, and how to research.

It’s like instrument practice: I can play violin, and someone who plays violin can write for violin because they know the tool deeply. It’s the same with electronic tools. When you know your tools, you can share and work with more ease. That’s why this way of composing feels much easier for me — more connected to my tools and to my way of writing music.

What composers — or broader aesthetic references — have left the strongest impression on you?

I always choose Jóhann Jóhannsson, because he really touched my soul. Playing his music, and experiencing his way of writing — simple music, but always with the right emotion, the right amount of notes — has been a huge inspiration for me.

In terms of curiosity, and also learning to be confident, I would mention the people from A Winged Victory for the Sullen — Dustin O’Halloran and Adam Wiltzie and all the artists i had the chance to meet with Echo Collective. They shared their way of making music, their way of being on stage, and of sharing their lives through what they do. It was really meaningful to be around them: it helped me trust myself, to at least start, try, and connect with that kind of work — and to understand how I could perhaps find my own way.

And then there is also Hildur Guðnadóttir, because she is a string player and she uses strings in a way nobody used before — with experimentation. I really love contemporary music: I love how to “destroy” sounds, and the research behind it, because I also played a lot of contemporary music in a classical context. In her work I find a strong balance between creating new textures and making them sound great — for example within a soundtrack, or other kinds of music. And yet, somehow, she manages to show her work to many people even with this experimental way of playing the cello and using whatever sounds she uses. I find it really powerful, interesting, and passionate.

And also, as a woman, what she does is a statement. It’s important to have models like that — to see that she can do it, and inspire us, without “seducing” people: she just does it, it sounds great, and that’s all we need as artists — that kind of pulse.

Of course, there are many other people too — especially the people you meet along your journey as an artist. I traveled a lot: India, Nicaragua, Cuba, Africa. People can inspire you just by being themselves, and by sharing their culture, their smile, their food. As a composer, you express what you have experienced, and how you felt those experiences — through traveling, through life, through everything.

Every project has a starting point. What is usually the most effective one for you? Is it a melody, a sonic idea, a specific context, or something else?

Actually, I think it often starts from an abstract emotion that comes from the story. When I compose, I almost always begin with an instrument: I go to the harp, the piano, the violin, singing, or simply making noise. Sometimes things are already set up — with pedals, for example — and I just react to what is there. I’m really in the moment, and I start from a gesture that is directly connected to the emotion I’m feeling at that time.

If I’m writing for a score, for instance for a soundtrack, I of course watch the film, read the script, and meet the director. Very often, already during the conversation, something starts happening in my head — images, sounds, textures. I don’t know why, but it’s there immediately. When I start working, I already have this “food” inside me, and I just let things unfold.

Afterwards, the structure comes: maybe there is a theme, maybe it’s rhythmic, maybe something else emerges. I erase things, redo them, transform them — the process develops later. But the very first thing is always that initial gesture, almost like a first breath, which comes from a discussion, a reading, or an encounter.

In much contemporary music, time is not necessarily treated as a linear trajectory of development or innovation. How do you experience and shape musical time in your own work?

I don’t really work with samples or keyboard presets. If I use them at all, it’s usually at the very end of the process. I always start with an instrument. Because of that, breathing becomes something very natural: you cannot make a gesture without breathing, and you always need space after something happens. It’s the same when you sing, play the piano, or play an instrument — breathing is part of the music. So for me, time comes from a very organic, almost improvisational feeling.

Of course, it’s different if you write for yourself and for performance, or if you write for a soundtrack. With a soundtrack, you already have the image, and you are not alone anymore — there is more than just your music. It’s like being in a group: you have to listen even more, because part of the emotion is already carried by the image. You have to be very respectful of timing — when to enter, when to repeat something because it was too subtle, when to leave space.

It’s sometimes difficult for me to put this into words. When you compose for yourself and you also perform the piece, you have to anticipate every gesture: sometimes you repeat something, sometimes you layer something else on top, and only later you have time to connect with pedals or electronics. It becomes a kind of choreography — what can breathe, what can repeat, what can evolve.

When you write for other people, or play with others, it changes again. You have to let them “talk” to each other. Different musicians — and different instruments — carry different internal tempi: some are naturally faster, some slower. Writing also means listening to that, and sometimes even to the person themselves, not just the instrument. For me, all of this leads to a very organic way of shaping time in music.

Let’s go deeper into the relationship between writing and producing. Do you see production — sound design choices, mixing, and so on — as something separate from composition, or as an inseparable part of it?

For me it’s the same — it’s inseparable. Sometimes I really need to work with live production to understand it, because everything changes depending on the context. You can play differently — like playing a quartet in a church versus outdoors: you will play differently because you want the sound to become what you want, and the space will react differently. With production, it’s one hundred percent together — always.

Speaking of technology, let’s focus on the DAW: what is its function in your process? Has the software become your main sketchpad, replacing the traditional steps of composition?

Technology is always there — sometimes subtle, sometimes it’s the main thing, depending on what you want to create. But it always comes from original sounds. Sometimes it’s also nice to just play with the sound and see how it reacts — like being in nature — with the modular or this kind of variation. You can react: “oh, it’s going to do this, so if it does this, I’m going to do this,” and you can really make a ping-pong with that kind of thing.

I always want a balance between the original sounds of the instruments and the processed sounds, because I feel more connected to real instruments. I want people to feel the gesture from an instrument somehow — it’s connected to me and my journey. And this is also the place for Fabien to explore and to show me how far we can go; we can also be inspired by these tools. It’s always a really nice collaboration and connection. And we record everything — for example, if I go to the harp, the first things are always recorded — so we are always connected to these tools.

Do you ever find yourself thinking in visual or synesthetic terms when you are not composing for images? If so, how does this manifest in your work?

Actually, I’m not a visual person. When I play music or work with sound, nothing visual comes to me. I know some people can see colours — green, yellow, the sea, or images like that — but it never happens to me in that way. For me it’s much more emotional. It doesn’t really tell me a story either; it simply puts me into a mood, a sensation.

Sometimes, when I listen to music, I feel like singing something on top of it, or immersing myself inside the sound itself. But it’s never visual — never an image or a picture. It’s more about being inside the sound and the feeling it creates.

Have you ever felt the need to notate or codify aspects of production — for example specific sound-design choices, processing, or mixing instructions?

Yes, of course — that’s a big part of writing, especially if you have to work with an orchestra, or if you are writing a theme, a score, or even another track for your album. And it’s also true if you are working with other performers — a trombone player, another violinist — and you want something that isn’t usual.

But I prefer to write simple things, because when there is too much information it can become complicated and confusing. As a performer, if on every note I have to do something different, I lose the connection with my sound. And I can see that performers can get lost as well if there are too many instructions.

So sometimes I prefer to put a few words before the score — to give a direction, like an atmosphere or an image — and then let them explore. Sometimes I’m surprised: something different comes out, but it can be beautiful. For drones, for example, or even for themes, you don’t always need exactly what you had in your head; sometimes another direction is even better. I like that interaction between what I compose and the performer I work with — that’s the magic: they can be free inside your paper.

And when it doesn’t work, I always come back to confidence, and to what we can do in that moment — to what beauty can emerge from the composition. I also keep in mind that sometimes, if something isn’t appropriate, it might be because the score is not written well enough — maybe I need to improve how I say it, how I notate it. Sometimes it’s also easier if you can show something by playing, even if it isn’t your instrument: you give something to the people, and they react.

Do you also feel the need to provide codes, legends, or introductory pages — especially when electronics or pedals are involved — to help performers enter your sonic world?

Yes. In contemporary music, when you play something by Hosokawa, or Steve Reich, you often have an introductory page with codes, drawings, or invented symbols. It’s interesting as a performer: you enter the composer’s world with new tools, and you understand what kind of “wave,” what kind of gesture, what kind of sound is expected. It’s the same with Sciarrino: you enter his world, and you know it will be Sciarrino — it’s a whole aesthetic universe.

For me, as a composer — also in electronic music — it’s important to share that world, so performers can understand it and read it even before playing. It gives them a key: “we are going to be in this kind of world.” It makes them more confident, because they already have a way to open the door into the piece. That’s why I think it’s good to have a small “manifesto,” or a short set of indications.

And in production, too: if I write something with pedals, it’s really useful to specify which pedals, which tools, which settings — at least to give an idea. Then, if someone wants to recreate the same thing, they have a reference; and if they want to change it, it’s still easy because they already have a map to navigate. For me it’s not a closed system — it’s an open system, like a modular system.

A lot of people also work with graphic scores, for example, and that’s really interesting. You can have an image, or you can write within the score how to sit on stage, or even how the audience should be positioned. There are so many possibilities. And they put people into a different situation: they understand each other differently, and of course they play differently. So it’s always nice to have that kind of thing — not too much, but enough to open the space.

Do you think that new performance formats can represent a kind of evolution — almost a “revolution” comparable to the works themselves? For example: what do you think about these kinds of formats?

For me it’s more like an evolution. I think there will be much more of this in the future, and I love all these tools. Sometimes it’s also interesting for composition, because it creates a new way of listening: you can place elements in another space, and you can synchronize your layers differently, because everything will sound different in a different environment.

Sometimes it’s curiosity, sometimes you lose a bit of time — but sometimes it really works well. It’s like everything: it’s another tool, and it’s really interesting to experience it, to understand it, and to expand the ways you can make composition. It still needs to improve — to become better, and closer to people — but it’s already really interesting.

It can also push people to play differently on stage, and sometimes to imagine other concepts of listening: in a forest, in a dome, with other artists, with sculptures… It opens doors. So it’s always nice.

When do you start applying spatialization in your process — from the very beginning, or mainly in post-production?

In my work, it’s more in post-production — but it depends. If I’m making music for an art installation, of course it can be at the beginning of the process. But right now, for what I do most often, it’s more in post-production.

In those cases where spatialization is the starting point — such as with art installations — how does the process unfold? Can you give us an example?

I need to be in the system. If I start composing from that, I have to understand how I’m going to place elements — and very often I don’t already have the elements; I build them within the system. For example, when I was exploring 4D Sound in Berlin with Neil Leiter, it was fascinating to be inside the system and think in a very physical, spatial way — almost like, “If I do this, it will sound like that, so I’ll add this element.”

It’s not the same as being at home listening to my sound, because at home I’m in another system: it resonates differently, and something else comes out. That’s really interesting, because it’s another way of composing and it makes very different things. It can also be more abstract — you don’t need a theme, for example. It’s more like being in a forest: sounds come from this corner and the other corner, and it becomes interesting where they come from and how they resonate for you. It’s more complex, and it can also be more abstract. It’s a nice feeling, actually.

How important is live performance to you? Is it a central part of your life, or more peripheral?

For me it’s always central. I really like to be on stage and share. I love people — I love being around people and sharing, whether it’s for music or for doing music myself on stage. I really love this position, this moment of sharing. That’s the center of my life.

And whatever music I do — whether it’s mine or I play the compositions of other people — it’s the same for me. It’s just music. When it’s mine, I even forget it’s mine. It becomes an emotional sharing, and I feel it’s the central part of my artistic journey.

Also, the stage is the place that inspires me the most. Sometimes I’m on stage and I think: “Now I would like to express this,” and I don’t have a track like this — so I go and make a track like this. Sometimes it works, sometimes you find yourself in a strange situation, and you always have to deal with time and life in real conditions.

Sometimes you have 50 people in front of you, sometimes 2000 — it’s a different kind of energy. So yes, for sure: live performance is the central part.

When creating — for example when recording — how do you choose the space (the place where you record), and how do these choices directly influence the material you develop?

That’s really interesting. With Neil Leiter, for our last Echo Collective album, we made a piece called “Dante” in a library in Italy, with a very, very big reverb. In every single place there is a different kind of resonance — a different reverb quality, a different “colour” of sound. With acoustic instruments, this makes a huge difference: if you are in one room or another room, the quality of sound changes completely.

Some rooms feel completely dead — I don’t know why, maybe energetically — and some rooms feel full of something: full of soul or mind, like they are charged. I think a lot of churches have that kind of charge. And it’s not only the reverb: if a space is bright or dark, if there is air moving or not, if it’s warm — every single detail changes the sound.

Even for the violin, the bow connects differently depending on the conditions: if it’s warm, if it’s humid, if it’s wet. So it’s really important to choose the right place depending on what you want to express. And it’s something we choose very carefully — especially for a recording, an album, or whatever music I do.

When you add visual components to a performance, do those images emerge only from sound, or do you see the performance as a multi-centric sphere in which sound and visuals play equally fundamental roles?

That’s a very interesting question. I’m not sure there’s one single answer — I think it really depends on the project.

Sometimes I feel that adding light, for example, can gently enhance the emotional intensity of the music. It’s also about beauty — about creating a certain atmosphere that invites the audience into a specific artistic world. In that sense, visuals can support the experience and open a space around the sound.

If I include visual elements, I would hope they naturally blend with the performance, so that everything feels like one coherent presence rather than separate layers. I don’t tend to think in terms of hierarchy, where one element is more fundamental than another. Each person connects differently — some are more sensitive to sound, others to visuals — and that’s part of what makes a live experience so personal.

Of course, this comes from my perspective as a musician. In installation art, visual performance, or dance, the balance can shift completely, and each artistic element might take on a different role depending on the intention. For me, it’s always about finding a sensitive balance that feels honest to the project.

In an immersive work, how do you see the role of the audience? Are they a passive witness to a finished work, or do you consider them an active component of the performance?

No — they’re active, always. The way they listen, the way they react, of course augments the power of the emotion and changes how we connect with them. It’s a back-and-forth: I think they are always active.

That’s also why it’s so nice to perform on stage — because you are really in dialogue with people. Even if you don’t speak, or you only speak a little, we need them.

When you compose music for images — for example film scoring — do you apply the same strategies and methods as in your non-film music? Are there elements of your language that remain constant, or does the visual context change the entire process?

When you write for your group or for yourself, you are with yourself — with your own soul, and what you want to express. When you write for film, you are inside a story that is already written. For my part, I always try to connect with what kind of sound and what kind of emotion the story needs — but also what the director needs. The director chooses you, so he is already connected with your work: he chooses your sound, your way of expressing music. So, in return, I want to understand why he chose me — what kind of connection he has with the music — and then give the project what it needs, in relation to the connection the director has.

The director has the power to put everybody together for the film. So if he chooses you, you have to enter that universe. It’s a totally different way of composing — and I like it, because it’s not only myself; it becomes something else. I like to be with people and to react.

For example, on the last film I worked on, they wanted something connected to flamenco music. I thought: how can I connect to a music I have never really done — a culture I’m not used to listening to — and still be myself? Because you still have to be yourself as an artist. So it becomes an interesting process: you listen to other music, connect with it, and understand why you are connected to it. You can end up doing something you might never do for your own album.

And I also love the moment when you first play your cues for the director. You immediately see: “I love this one,” or “this one will be complicated,” or “this doesn’t resonate with the film.” I like that, because you instantly understand where you need to research more, experiment more, and develop the sound further.

But it’s always different depending on the project. Sometimes you are at the beginning of the process — you have only words, and you have to compose with words, with the director. Sometimes you are at the very end of the process, and you even have reference music: you have to fit with the reference, you have to compose something within an existing framework, and sometimes there are already sounds that need to be taken off and replaced. So it really depends on the project.

In film scoring, are you usually involved from the very early stages — for example during script development, dialogue writing, or pre-production — or is that not essential for you?

The early stage is always the director’s story, of course. The director may have been thinking for months or years before choosing you. But yes — you can be involved before they shoot, before there are any images, at the very beginning of the process, when there is only the script and the story.

For example, for a short film — for which I already released the soundtrack — I was involved at the very, very beginning: no images, just the script, just the story. And it was fantastic, I really loved it. When I later received the images, I could send some sounds, and the director also let me choose where I wanted to place the music. So we had many discussions: why there, maybe there, longer, shorter — that kind of thing.

Sometimes, of course, you have exact timings — from minute 1 to minute 2:32 — and you have to fit precisely with the film’s rhythm. It’s not “beat music,” but you still need to fit. And sometimes the director decides: “No, I don’t want music there.” Or sometimes you write a track and the director says: “It’s interesting, but I don’t see it there — I see it somewhere else.” So it’s always a back-and-forth. And yes, it can be at the beginning, or it can also happen at the very end — in a rush, when you have to finish in one month because production has to close.

In the context of film scoring, how much space do you usually have to bring your own artistic voice into the music?

Luckily, until now I’ve always had a lot of space. Of course, sometimes you have to search for the right “colour” of the music: you sense something at the beginning, it doesn’t fit well, so you search more — and suddenly you find what is truly connected to the film and to the director. So it’s always an exchange between the director and you.

But very often it becomes a really great conversation between the director and myself — and also Fabien, because he has a good position in this process and can help balance the work, and sometimes also support with editing and with what’s needed to understand the music really well. So it’s a great conversation between the director and us.

Until now I’ve had the luck of feeling free — or at least, if one track isn’t the best, I write another one. And in the end it’s always something I like, and I feel it connects with the film. So that’s nice. I really like it.

Within the field of film music, which composers or soundtracks have been your favourites?

Of course Jóhann Jóhannsson, and of course Hildur Guðnadóttir. And also Jerskin Fendrix, the composer of Poor Things, because he used the harp a lot — and in a very different way. It was really interesting for me to listen to those kinds of sounds. I also really like Mica Levi in Under the Skin — that kind of processing, those strange sounds.

And Woman at War — it’s an Icelandic film, a mixed production with Ukraine, Europe, and Iceland. The performers are on screen too, with sousaphone and piano, and I found that really interesting: it becomes part of the film. It’s a really nice movie, and it’s inspiring — that way of making music “appear,” and redefining the role of music in a film.

More broadly, how do you perceive current trends in film music — in terms of language, texture, and the role of themes?

I can really only speak from my own experience. But what I’ve noticed is that today there’s often a desire for more soundscape — sometimes even more noise. Lyrical violin or large orchestral themes are less common; at times, it’s almost “no music” at all, just atmosphere.

In those moments, you sometimes need to gently advocate for a theme, because the film needs it to breathe, to have space and emotion.

Looking back at productions from 30, 40, or 50 years ago, the approach was much more orchestral — more instruments, more music throughout. Today, especially in auteur cinema rather than commercial film, the approach often feels “less is more”: more electronics, more textures, more abstract and atmospheric music than before.

Today, the music industry is shaped by a few dominant modes of circulation, where listening is often fast and attention-driven. Do you find yourself having to deal with this in your work? And how much space do you think the industry currently leaves for experimental music?

I think it’s maybe a generational difference: platforms and social media can define your work more for people who grew up with them, because that “presence” can enter very early in their creative process. For me, I started performing before all of that, so it wasn’t in my head. We didn’t have to promote ourselves in the way we have to now, and it’s sometimes difficult for me to handle all of it. Sometimes I like it; sometimes I really don’t. With streaming platforms it’s similar: I can see that two-minute tracks work much more than ten-minute ones, but when I compose I’m never going to think, “I have to make a two-minute track because it will be listened to more than a ten-minute one.”

So I’m in a totally different place. Maybe afterwards I realize: “okay, it won’t be listened to because it’s ten minutes.” But that’s more a discussion you have with a manager or bookers. On stage it’s totally different. Of course, maybe I’m wrong — maybe I should consider algorithms more, to reach more people. But I think there will always be an audience for each system, and for each way of making music.

What are your views on the impact of artificial intelligence on music-making today?

I don’t know if I understand your question perfectly, but I don’t really use artificial intelligence in my work — maybe only for writing or correcting text, that kind of thing. But I’ve never used it for creating music.

I think it’s a powerful tool, and like all powerful tools, it has very good aspects and really awful aspects. And I really hope the good will outweigh the awful. When you make music yourself, you put something into it that is different from asking artificial intelligence to do it. It’s like using samples instead of recording an orchestra: it goes to another place in our brain, and the “address” of the music is different — the way we appreciate music is different.

So I really hope people won’t avoid listening to a real orchestra and to the real creation of music from a new brain — because that is the beauty. The beauty is not to lose the music: the process, and everything. The beauty is to do it — the journey of making something different, and the joy of sharing it. It’s full of beauty and energy, it’s more exciting. And you give that beauty to people. If there is no beauty anymore, everything becomes flat, and it won’t have the same power.

How does collaboration within Echo Collective work? Do you consider the collaborative “set” itself as part of your composition?

Yes, of course. Collaboration within Echo Collective has influenced my work a lot, because it’s a constant meeting with all these people we are connected with — Dustin, Adam, Joep, Rutger, Christina, ... It’s always exciting to work with new people. We’re starting a new project with Suso Saiz, a Spanish composer, and we’ll also be performing Last and First Men in Bristol with Neon Dance, alongside Yair Glotman.

It’s a joy to meet all these people through Echo Collective and through collaboration. They are always the right people to take you into another space, and they are happy to share their work. That has been one of the main influences in my life — of course always connected to what I like, and also to compositional tools.

It’s so nice to have people playing music around you, with their own instruments, and to be able to discuss how to play something, how we can make it sound better together, how to rearrange things, and even how to manage the music so it can be mixed in a better way. Because Echo Collective is Neil and myself, but we always work with the same people around us: sometimes clarinets, sometimes piano, sometimes other musicians. It’s always valuable to have them close and to be able to add their perspective — to shape your understanding of the music and how to make it sound for each instrument.

Looking ahead, what excites you the most about your artistic path in the coming years?

I really enjoy working on soundtracks, and I would love to continue exploring that world. At the same time, I want to keep performing on stage, as we do with Echo Collective — mixing collaborations with our own music. There’s something really inspiring about that process: reconnecting again and again with the shared energy of live creation.

So for me, it’s both paths together: playing on stage with others — my music or theirs — and composing for film, meeting directors, and being surrounded by creative minds. I also love performing my album FREEDOM, travelling with my small harp and pedals, and experiencing the intimacy and freedom that comes with it.

And quietly, I carry a small dream of conceptualizing a visual art installation — though it’s still just at the very beginning in my mind, a seed I hope to grow one day.