Since the beginning of her career, Paola Prestini (BM ’95) has been guided by an ethos that marries her artistic ambitions as a composer with her values for interdisciplinary exchange and people-focused initiatives. She’s become one of her generation’s leading composers, and among progressive and experimental performers, National Sawdust—the Brooklyn-based performance venue-cum-artistic incubator Prestini co-founded in 2015—is a household name.
Prestini’s work exemplifies the kind of multifaceted “portfolio” career and engaged 21st-century citizen artistry that Peabody’s Breakthrough Curriculum is training the next generation of artists to emulate—although she’s quick to point out that her approach arose from necessity, and that dedicated time for composing is still tricky to come by.
Not that we can tell: Between the recently released recording of her opera Edward Tulane, her multilingual adaptation of Old Man and the Sea opening in November, a new work on Awadagin Pratt’s (PC ’89, Piano; PC ’89, Violin; GPD ’92, Conducting) STILLPOINT album inspired by T.S. Eliot’s “The Four Quartets,” and the ongoing development of her Sensorium Ex opera (the first opera starring a nonverbal lead), Prestini’s composing finally seems to be taking centerstage in her life.
Peabody caught up with her to talk about ideas of success, finding time to compose, and the importance of collaboration.
What are you up to? What are you thinking about?
Paola Prestini: For the first time in my life, I feel like all these parts of me actually make sense. For so long, many of them were developing at different speeds. And many people were like, well, you can’t really do all of that, so then I would develop these aspects of myself almost covertly. I don’t feel like I have to do that anymore.
When I was at Peabody and Juilliard, it was all about composition. But I was very aware that for different reasons, my career path was not going to look like my male counterparts’. I became really preoccupied with how I was going to make a living. I had to find a way to support myself.
I got this fellowship called the Paul and Daisy Soros Fellowship for New Americans. That’s when my brain kind of exploded because I was aware that people were not just worried about their careers, but also the context around their careers.
So I started my first nonprofit [VisionIntoArt], that became how I commissioned my work. I was always interested in interdisciplinarities, so I was developing both the legwork for the nonprofit, and composing, and working with other composers to get them opportunities. So that reality, whether it was initially in me or not, to always kind of be more entrepreneurial, was not by choice—it was by necessity.
When I got the opportunity to do National Sawdust, that felt like: What does it mean to put a physical place to these dreams? It was too big an opportunity to pass up. The problem was that I was still in my 30s, I was a young mom, nobody knew who I was, I hadn’t really proved myself as a composer.
That became this big challenge. What does it mean to still be composing, but optically, you’re starting this enormous thing? For so long, I was so aware that the optics were stacked against me—that I didn’t really know how to talk about what I was doing, and why I was doing it, which was really about establishing a space for people and a vision behind equity and performance. You know, really giving people the tools to succeed. Years later, I began to think of it as a work of art and felt a lot more at peace with that devotion.
Given the opportunity to go back and have that “just composing” career—which maybe a handful of people have—would you choose that option?
I don’t think so but I’ll never know, right? Because that wasn’t my reality. I follow an intuitive path. When I met Kevin [Dolan], my co-founder at National Sawdust, I followed that path because it was in front of me and it felt like the right opening.
I rely pretty heavily on my instincts and am open to how life works. When I had a child, I didn’t think too much about it because I knew I wanted to have a child. It wasn’t like, how am I going to balance this? I’m gonna’ do it and I’m gonna’ figure it out as I go, which for better or worse is how I approach everything.
I think that now that Sawdust is reaching its 10th anniversary I’m feeling more confident in my composing, [and] I’ve been able to restart my [VisionIntoArt] production company again.
Do you feel like you’ve “arrived”? What would that look like?
No! . . . . I don’t think one’s ever arrived. In different parts of your life, you’re striving for different things. I always want more time to write. Sawdust has this amazing new managing director, [Ana de Archuleta]. She’s taking all of that off my shoulders [and] we’re about to go into a capital campaign. So, for me, what arriving would mean is that this campaign goes well, Sawdust is set up for the future, we’re training or potentially hiring the next artistic director so that it always remains this vibrant place. Because I was the right person to start it, but I don’t think I’m the answer for Sawdust forever.
And then writing my own music, potentially always interfacing with Sawdust in a very specific way that’s more about future-leaning thought and interdisciplinarity. I guess the bottom line is that when you’re an aspirational person, you’re always going to change and you’re always looking for the evolution of your dreams. So mostly I would want more time.
I guess “arrival” is different from feeling like everything makes sense.
Right. Before, it was more like—how am I going to explain these things? It doesn’t make sense that I can function on a business level and as a dreamy composer. It’s not too typical. I get that. I have an ability to be a dreamer and, at the same time, pragmatic when I need to be. Those two things have allowed me to navigate the not-very-easy world of essentially bringing a new institution to life while at the same time being able to segment my mind to just focus when I want to.
A huge part of how I was able to deal with the optics of being a multiple-career type of person was by hiring a publicist. I want to be transparent about that. I think a lot of people feel that as a composer, you need a manager. I now have management, but it’s at my late 40s—and just this year. Having a publicist was really helpful because I had the messaging that I needed to do for Sawdust, I have the messaging that I do for myself. It’s a lot.
What I’ve learned is you can’t necessarily change the industry but you can change the way you approach it. That slowly changes the industry but you don’t know the timeline of that change. I am also aware that I have very different goals. I have a goal that’s an activist goal: to provide more equity for women and other marginalized genders. I have goals about my composing, which is my own nonprofit. That’s what I choose to say yes to as commissions, which is very specific.
Do you have a set time when you compose?
Usually, I compose in big spurts. I will go sometimes a month without writing anything. Then I’ll have weeks and weeks where I’m focusing just on that. That’s by necessity, but also because I take on two to three projects at once that have really different timelines.
When I went to [the American Academy in] Rome, two years ago, I was there for three months. I remember people asking: “What do you do all day?” Are you kidding me? I’m writing all day long! Don’t bother me! This is a dream! All I wanted was to be alone and see Rome by myself and just write.
I had no distractions. No phone, never checked my email for the first time in my life. My son and Jeff, my husband, still joke whenever I go anywhere—they call everything “going to Rome,” as a joke. They were actually really supportive. But it’s like, I went for three months and didn’t even bat an eye. I took that time. It was my time.
I find that I don’t have the same energy to organize as much as I did in the past. That’s OK. And there’s the part of me that’s a mother and a partner, and . . .
And everything else, a human being.
And a human being. How important that is, to create a foundation of friendship and love that allows you to get away from everything.
I want to focus on your composing and artistic interests and the different themes that show up in your work. The commissions you say yes to, your operas, they’re so wide-ranging but they all feel part of your ethic and your esthetic. What are your core themes?
A lot of it is story-driven. It’s news-driven. And it’s how I want to challenge myself in terms of form or change. If you take a piece like The Old Man and the Sea, I was obsessed with the Hemingway, I knew I wanted to do something really different in terms of approaching the opera. I knew I was writing it for [vocalist] Helga Davis, whom I had written my very first opera for. I was writing for [cellist Jeffrey Zeigler,] my husband.
So I get this idea that I’m writing for specific people, I’m subverting the form, and I’m passionate about the story.
But then there’s Sensorium Ex. That’s a melding of science, music, and disability rights. It started as a commission. Soon after I realized, well, this is about creating a space to actively listen and creating a storyline that can only be brought to life by people with different abilities. It became this really deep inquiry into creating the space for that in opera and doing the workshops the right way. And then the tech and AI is all about expressivity.
That’s a seven-year project. I’m finding the funding for it. I’m totally committed to building the whole space for that opera because the space doesn’t exist. Then sometimes I’ll take a commission that’s just a commission.
Like STILLPOINT?
I was just going to say, even then—I love Awadagin Pratt. We actually met at Peabody, so of course I’m gonna say yes to that. I adore him. He’s brilliant. And I love the theme, I love the composers. The idea of being next to Tyshawn [Sorey], you know, next to Jessie [Montgomery], Alvin [Singleton], and Judd [Greenstein]. It’s such an honor. How cool to write for this incredible pianist and these two incredible groups, [Roomful of Teeth and A Far Cry].
Writing, for me, is not about, “Oh my God, how am I going to write this?” It’s more about setting aside the time, going really deep, and then pausing. Maybe it’s part of being a mom. I’m not precious about where I compose or when I compose. It’s more like, this is my time, I’m gonna’ do it, and I can’t wait.
I’m thinking of Mason Currey’s Daily Rituals, where he researched how different artists over the last hundred or so years conducted their work. One of his questions was, is there any consistency or pattern in how they manage their time? Turns out, no consistency whatsoever. The best answer to “How do I become a writer?” is, well, you write.
Exactly. I do think that having a great teacher helps. And that’s one of the things that I felt like I had at Peabody, I was really appreciative of my ear-training teacher Bruce Eicher. As writers, as composers, it’s so important to have good teachers or mentors, and to figure out throughout your life: What are you listening to that helps you continuously evolve your form?
I have this little thing above my desk. I’ll read it to you.
Where you can tighten language, tighten it.
Structure and form before, during, and after.
Don’t forget to analyze your own work.
Where are your holes?
What do you fall back on?
When feeling strong, challenge all these assumptions.
You have these written down over your desk?
Yeah. I think it can get very easy to not constantly challenge yourself, especially once you’re past the student phase.
Your collaborators are so important to you, too. It’s not mentorship, but—
It is. I’m glad you say that because I do see it that way. Like when I started working with Julian Crouch and Rinde [Eckert] on Aging Magician, we were in significantly different places in our careers. And it was such a blessing. I definitely feel like each of these collaborators has taught me something specific.
With Helga [Davis], a huge part of our collaboration was about, how do you work with someone who learns music a different way? Or who has a very specific voice? When you have this piece done again, [that singer might not] have four octaves or improvisational skills. So how does that affect the writing? What does it mean in terms of intellectual property?
With Jeff [Zeigler], similarly, he’s such an incredible improviser. What does that mean to my score? How do I credit his improvisations?
The luck of working with someone over and over again is you develop real trust. And sometimes you can go really deep into their skill and how it affects your music. I love that. I tend to work with people more than once. With [the poet] Brenda Shaughnessy, we wrote a Mass together, a piece together, and now we’re writing an opera together. I’m now working with this incredible poet named Robin Coste Lewis—she won the National Book Award for The Voyage of the Sable Venus. We’re gonna write our first opera. I can imagine doing more than that. I tend to really think hard about who I work with on these larger collaborations. They become family.
The Old Man and the Sea is having its world premiere this fall. You mentioned that you had always loved this story. Why?
My biological father, who I didn’t really grow up with, is obsessed with fishing and loves this story. I think the stoicism of this character in this very existential setting is something I wanted to understand. And because it’s such a Spartan story, it lends itself to re-imagination.
I was curious to know, what does it mean to be a fisherman? What does it mean to have that relationship with the ocean? How to personify those characters?
And then tying in Hemingway’s life, it’s so fascinating. He hadn’t written in 10 years when he started writing [Old Man]. What does it mean to get back to your craft, and to think of his life? Affairs with Marlene Dietrich, his own sexuality, his relationships, what was happening with Joe DiMaggio at the time and how he appears in the novel. It becomes this surreal take on Hemingway’s life as interstitials.
What’s next for you?
I’m working on Sensorium Ex. I’m writing a work commissioned by the Met Museum with Magos Herrera based on the life of the proto-feminist nun from Mexico, Sor Juana. I’m working with Jad Abumrad on a new piece about the Brooklyn Navy Yard and who gets to be archived. I’m writing an opera with Robin [Coste Lewis] on the life of [poet Denmark] Vesey.*
What’s something you don’t get asked that you wish people would ask you? Or what would you like to talk more about?
I want to write a grand opera, two grand operas. One is My Brilliant Friend by Elena Ferrante. I grew up with my best friend on the border of Nogales, Arizona. This idea of female love and friendship doesn’t often get explored or mined. I would love to see an opera where a woman doesn’t get raped but instead talks about the deepest love of her life with another woman, her friend.
The other opera is . . . I grew up in this crazy border town. I want to write a story about that, about this Italian family coming to the border of Mexico. And what that did to our family. The stories are wild. They’re funny and heartbreaking. I almost see it like a Best in Show. It would be a real comedy about the border, about immigration, being bilingual, that celebrates this kind of border life existence. I think would be really fun. So those are the two amazing things that are on my mind.
What’s something you don’t get asked that you wish people would ask you? Or what would you like to talk more about?
I want to write a grand opera, two grand operas. One is My Brilliant Friend by Elena Ferrante. I grew up with my best friend on the border of Nogales, Arizona. This idea of female love and friendship doesn’t often get explored or mined. I would love to see an opera where a woman doesn’t get raped but instead talks about the deepest love of her life with another woman, her friend.
The other opera is . . . I grew up in this crazy border town. I want to write a story about that, about this Italian family coming to the border of Mexico. And what that did to our family. The stories are wild. They’re funny and heartbreaking. I almost see it like a Best in Show. It would be a real comedy about the border, about immigration, being bilingual, that celebrates this kind of border life existence. I think would be really fun. So those are the two amazing things that are on my mind.
* A previous version of this story misidentified the poet in Prestini’s opera project with Robin Coste Lewis. Peabody magazine regrets the error.
