Where it All Began!

During my first visit to Dover in England, I found myself standing at the edge of the famous White Cliffs, completely struck by their quiet magnificence. The expanse of chalk rising above the sea felt almost sculptural—raw, luminous, and shaped by centuries of wind and water. As the sunlight fractured across the surface, the cliffs seemed to break into shifting planes of white and shadow.

From that height, gazing across the Channel, the distant coastline felt close enough to touch—its silhouette sparking the kind of imaginative leap only travel can bring. The vastness of that view, the sense of distance folding in on itself, and the shimmering edges of the cliffs all stirred a musical idea in me. In that moment, the earliest fragments of Shards began forming.

The piece’s title eventually came from The Shard building in London—another structure defined by sharp angles, broken reflections, and the feeling of standing among pieces of glass suspended in the sky. Somehow, both the cliffs and the building felt connected: natural and constructed “shards” of the world, each catching the light in its own way.

That experience in Dover gave me more than a melody; it gave me a visual and emotional landscape. The cliffs, the sea, the distant horizon—all of it fused into the musical language that would become Shards for piano. It’s a piece born from contrast: fragility and strength, stillness and motion, solid rock and fractured light.

Travel has a way of surprising you with inspiration when you least expect it—sometimes all it takes is standing on a cliff and letting the world rearrange itself in front of you.

This semester brought an unexpected and unforgettable opportunity: my first interaction with guzheng performer Yu, introduced to me through Haotian. Until now, I had only admired the guzheng from afar—its shimmering tone, expressive slides, and unique resonance—but meeting a performer who truly embodies the soul of the instrument changed everything.

Working with Yu has been one of the most inspiring collaborative experiences I’ve had so far. From our very first conversation, she brought openness, curiosity, and a deep musical sensitivity that made the creative process feel organic and alive. We explored textures, techniques, and colors together, and for the first time I felt like I was beginning to understand the emotional world the guzheng carries.

One of the highlights of this journey has been our developing recital collaboration—an exciting exploration of guitar and guzheng repertoire. Hearing the two instruments interact, complement, and challenge each other has opened up an entirely new sonic landscape for me. Their dialogue feels ancient and modern at the same time, full of contrast yet perfectly natural.

And then there was the moment that changed something in me as a composer: listening to Yu perform a solo piece. The sheer elegance, control, and storytelling in her playing were breathtaking. It was the kind of performance that doesn’t just impress—it sparks something. As soon as she finished, I knew I wanted to write for her. A set of solo guzheng pieces has already started forming in my mind, shaped by her artistry and the resonance of that moment.

This collaboration has reminded me how powerful it is to step into a new sound world with the right performer beside you—someone who invites exploration and brings the music to life in unexpected ways. I’m deeply grateful for this connection and excited for where it will lead next.

On my visit to Canterbury Cathedral, I found myself enveloped in a space where history, architecture, and sound seemed to breathe together. The vast stone arches, the golden light filtering through stained glass, and the almost weightless stillness of the nave created an atmosphere unlike anything I had experienced before.

During my time there, I attended a performance by one of their choral groups, singing the timeless polyphony of Palestrina. Hearing that music in a cathedral built for sound—its voices rising, crossing, and dissolving into the air—felt both ancient and immediate. The clarity of the lines, the purity of the harmony, and the spiritual tension within the simplicity of the writing all resonated in a way that lingered long after the final cadence.

As I listened, an idea quietly formed: not to imitate Renaissance polyphony, but to respond to it. To write a mass of my own—one shaped by contemporary language, new harmonies, and my own compositional voice, yet still touched by the serenity and architectural beauty of Palestrina’s world.

The cathedral became more than a place of worship; it became a chamber of inspiration. Its acoustics suggested long, unfolding lines; its architecture hinted at structure and ritual; and the music I heard asked a timeless question: how do we create sacredness today?

That experience in Canterbury sparked a desire to explore sacred form through a modern lens—honoring the old, but speaking in the musical language of now. The mass I envision aims to be exactly that: a contemporary echo of a centuries-old tradition, born from a moment of stillness in a cathedral that has held countless voices before mine.