For most of my life, I did not study composition because I wanted to become a composer. I studied it because I wanted to understand. As a young pianist, performing music was never enough; I wanted to know how it worked from the inside. Those years of private study shaped the way I listen, perform, and think about music. But for a long time, composition remained private: a tool for learning rather than a form of expression.
Then, gradually, something shifted. I stopped asking how other composers expressed themselves and began asking a different question: how do I express myself? Not originality for its own sake, but authenticity.
At the same time, I became increasingly interested in one of music’s most extraordinary qualities: its universality. Unlike words, music does not require translation. Of course, culture shapes us; yet the experience of sound begins in the same place for all of us: listening.
That idea has become one of the guiding principles of my own writing: I aim to write works that communicate directly with any listener, regardless of musical knowledge, while also rewarding deeper exploration by performers and musicians. For me, emotional impact and compositional depth are not opposites, but complementary aspects of the same artistic purpose.
People often imagine composition as something that begins with inspiration. My experience has been almost the opposite. Most days begin with work: I compose every day, whether I feel inspired or not. Through the exploration of musical ideas, emotions and memories sometimes emerge unexpectedly. Inspiration may spark the process, but composition remains, above all, a craft.
The art of composing for a specific artist
One of the aspects of composition that continues to fascinate me most is the difference between writing for oneself and writing for another artist. When composing for another musician, there is already an artistic vision in place. My task is not simply to write my music, but to create a space in which that person’s qualities can fully emerge. Each commission begins with listening: to the artist, to their ideas, and to the questions that matter to them.
This was the case with Tàmâr Métûšélah, commissioned by cellist Gautier Capuçon for his album Gaïa. Rather than focusing on environmental catastrophe, I found myself drawn to nature’s resilience and capacity for renewal. Inspired by the story of Methuselah, a date palm grown from a two-thousand-year-old seed, the piece became a reflection on endurance and the possibility of new beginnings.
A very different starting point gave rise to Sapias, commissioned by Mari Samuelsen for her album Life. The piece emerged from conversations we shared about motherhood - its joys, responsibilities, and uncertainties. The title comes from Horace: sapias means 'be wise' or 'live wisely'. It is an invitation to cherish life in all its complexity and to fully inhabit every passing moment.
In 2023, Limina Luminis was commissioned by organist Anna Lapwood for her BBC Proms debut at the Royal Albert Hall. Meaning 'Threshold of Light', it was inspired by the Overview Effect - the profound shift in perception experienced by astronauts when they see the Earth from space, and the realisation that we all share the same fragile home. The premiere remains one of the most emotional moments of my life as a composer. As the music built towards its climax, it felt as though the entire hall was holding its breath. Then came the applause: an overwhelming wave from more than 5,000 people that felt both humbling and profoundly moving.
The art of composing for oneself
Although these works grew from very different themes, I realised while writing them that they were all asking similar questions: about life’s meaning, resilience, and our shared humanity. When I write for myself, the situation is different. The freedom is greater, but so is the responsibility. There is no external vision to respond to. The dialogue becomes entirely internal.
My most recent project, Stanze Memori, emerged from this kind of personal reflection. In 2016, a devastating earthquake left a deep mark on my region, Le Marche. A recent visit to Palazzo Amici in Montottone - an abandoned palace in the heart of Le Marche - inspired a new chapter in that reflection. Walking through its silent rooms, I felt not emptiness but presence. There are places that, even when they seem empty, never stop speaking. Stanze Memori grew from that feeling: an exploration of the traces people leave behind, and the ways memory continues to inhabit places long after voices have fallen silent.
Thinking about memory also means thinking about the people who have shaped my life. We are all, in some way, the sum of the relationships that accompany us through time. No artistic path is travelled alone, and I am especially grateful to my husband, mentor, and artistic partner, Enrico Belli, whose insight, honesty, and encouragement have profoundly influenced my work.
Perhaps the reason I chose composition as my path is the same reason I fell in love with music in the first place: its capacity for transformation. Music has always elevated me, connecting me with something beyond myself and shaping the way I understand both this world and what lies beyond it For this reason, composing remains, above all, an act of gratitude: a way of offering back a small portion of what music has so generously given to me throughout my life.
Olivia Belli's new album 'Stenza Memori' is released on 17 July on XXIM records.
