Thomas van Dun

Composer and visual artist Thomas van Dun (MM '21) is a dynamic presence in today’s contemporary music and art worlds. His work combines orchestral writing, electronic influences and immersive experiences. His music has been performed by leading institutions such as the Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra and the Dutch National Ballet, and he was awarded, among others, 1st Prize at the 70th International Rostrum of Composers. As a visual artist, he won the Dutch television contest Project Rembrandt in 2024, with his final painting exhibited at the Rijksmuseum. A graduate of the Royal Conservatoire The Hague, he completed his bachelor’s and master’s degrees while studying with Martijn Padding.

How do you look back on your time at the Royal Conservatoire?
The most important figure in my studies was without doubt Martijn Padding. He was my composition teacher throughout my years at the conservatoire, and that turned out to be a very natural match. He understood my music, knew what it did and did not need. He was patient, yet at the same time very concrete in the opportunities he created: he brought me into projects or suggested my name when an orchestra was looking for a composer.

That is how I ended up with the Netherlands Student Orchestra, for which I wrote a large symphonic work of about twenty-eight minutes. That was really the beginning of my orchestral journey. Before that I had written short orchestral pieces like a few One-Minute Symphony pieces for the Residentie Orkest.

Stylistically, I also took something from the Hague School via Martijn and his link with Louis Andriessen. Not because I write the same music as he does, but because he understands those principles: the relationship with American music, the repetitive elements, the less cerebral approach than you sometimes find in the German tradition. That aligned naturally with what I was looking for myself, and it made the Royal Conservatoire feel like the right place for me very quickly.

What fascinates you about large ensembles and orchestras?
With an orchestra you can move from very small to absolutely massive. The palette is almost limitless. You have so many players that the orchestration becomes a far more intriguing puzzle. In smaller ensembles you often have to make strict choices: if the flute is doing this here, it cannot also carry the melody there. Everyone is constantly “on”. However, there are things you cannot do with an orchestra, simply because an orchestra will almost always sound like “an orchestra” – that grand, often romantically tinted mass of sound remains present. With chamber music you can more easily let something sound like it was unmistakably written now. Smaller line-ups open different doors: more room for experimental sounds, unusual combinations, lots of percussion, piano, and more direct communication. I have the feeling that a whole new phase of my work lies there.

In the kind of music I write, every player is active almost all the time when played by a smaller ensemble. In a piece I wrote for Het Muziek – which is essentially orchestral music in the format of a chamber ensemble – I noticed how intense that can be: no-one really gets a break. In a large orchestra you can distribute that much more thoughtfully. You can shape roles, give players rest, build layers of sound. For me, that makes it a very exciting medium to work in.

How would you describe your music?
My music seems to always reflect on emotions concerning spirituality, melancholy, desertion, and ecstasy. Musically, it blends late Romanticism and early Modernism, with influences from composers like Mahler and Strauss. While I draw on these traditions for structure and colour, my aim is to make them relevant to today, using contemporary sounds, harmonies, and stories. My inspiration comes from daily life, electronic music, and club culture—experiences I embrace through festivals and nightlife, which are just as integral to my music as symphonic tradition.

I am also influenced by abstract expressionism, particularly the colour fields of Mark Rothko and the spatial elements of religious architecture. Science fiction, with its boundless worlds and futuristic visions, also inspires my music, offering freedom to explore new sonic landscapes.

My music rarely deals with themes in an explicit, programmatic way. It is difficult to translate very concrete social or political information directly into pitch and rhythm. At the same time, those themes are sometimes strongly present as an undercurrent.

The experiences I had as a child, teenager and young adult – searching for identity, not finding my place, feeling like an outsider – are ones that indirectly appear in my music. A piece I wrote for Het Muziek, for instance, was about not belonging anywhere, about always hovering at the edges. That feeling is universal, of course, but for me it stems directly from amongst others also a queer background.

You also work in other media – from immersive experiences to ballet and painting. How do those disciplines influence each other?
Painting came later than composing. As a result, my visual work is currently more influenced by my music than the other way round. In my paintings I try to capture the same world: personal stories combined with an electronic, futuristic aesthetic. The works are often abstract fields of colour and layered textures – very similar to the sound worlds in my music.

In ballet the influence is less literal. I do not write “as a dancer”, but a collaboration such as In Flux with the Dutch National Ballet and Juanjo Arqués certainly leaves traces. When you are immersed in dance, space, light and movement for a year, it inevitably changes how you experience your own music.

What was it like to compose music that will later be choreographed?
In a ballet production you always work as part of an artistic team. You are not the only one making decisions. At the start you sit down with the choreographer and dramaturg to define themes and a global structure together. After that you begin writing, and you must accept that others sometimes have more to say about the final form.

One important lesson from that collaboration was that dance needs space. As a composer you are inclined to grip the listener’s attention very tightly. In ballet, that can be too much: you need space for the dancer to be front and centre. That means longer spans, fewer constant changes, and sometimes simply a bed of sound and rhythm rather than a melody that always demands attention.

During rehearsals I was closely involved. For In Flux there were many rehearsal sessions, and after almost each one I adjusted details – usually by leaving things out. You learn a great deal from the way dancers, conductor and orchestra make your music live in the space. To then also be able to see the final result in the Dutch National Opera & Ballet was a great honour.

Do you follow a similar creative process in all these different projects?
Broadly speaking, yes. Often, I have material floating around in my head for years before I know where it belongs. When I start a new piece, it might suddenly click: this is where that idea belongs. Some ideas I first came up with as a teenager and only now find their place. If an idea is strong enough, it stays in a sort of mental drawer. I don’t keep a record or note of it. If it disappears, the idea probably was not worth keeping. Alongside that, there is always new material that arises during the process itself. Sometimes I use it immediately; sometimes I put it aside because it clearly belongs in a future work. It is a continuous pattern of searching, shifting and re-using ideas over time.

In my head, pieces often have a colour gradient that mirrors the emotional development. A work can begin in a blue-purple domain, shift towards greys, whites and blacks in more destructive passages, and eventually find its own shade of blue again. It is not an exact colour code, but it is a very real way for me to experience form.

I also think in atmospheres: mist, clouds, shadows, shafts of light. In a big project I am currently working on with the Rotterdam Philharmonic Orchestra, colour even becomes literally visible: together with a visual artist, the entire hall will be transformed with light, projections and large textile elements.

In 2024 you won, among others, the International Rostrum of Composers and the Keep an Eye Foundation Production Prize. Did prizes influence your career?
At one point several prizes arrived in quick succession: the production prize from the Keep an Eye Foundation, the International Rostrum of Composers, and shortly afterwards an award in the television programme Project Rembrandt. That was quite remarkable, especially because I had rarely taken part in competitions before.

Prizes work as a kind of stamp. Within the field, people start to look at you slightly differently: your name pops up more often. For commissioners, it can take away doubts. My aim was never to collect prizes, but I do notice I am now reaping the benefits of that period.

For some prizes I did not even apply myself. For the Rostrum, the NTR selected a piece I had written for the Zaterdagmatinee and submitted it. I only heard afterwards that it had won. So, at times it feels more like a gift than like the result of a conscious campaign.

Are there upcoming projects you are particularly looking forward to?
There is a project with the Rotterdam Philharmonic Orchestra titled The Lake of Oblivion, which is a major highlight for me. It involves a large orchestral work with organ, in which the entire hall will be transformed through light, projections and textile elements. It will be a truly immersive experience in which music, space and image are equal partners. Those are the kinds of projects I long for the most: where a complete picture is made.

I find maintaining contacts within the field very important. My collaboration with Dutch National Ballet also grew out of that: from the time I was eighteen years old I hung around there, attending rehearsals, talking to choreographers. Later, when the artistic director heard a piece of mine that had just won a prize, the question followed almost naturally: “Are you ready to write a full-length ballet now?” Apparently, the answer was yes.

In the Pride period I will also be creating an installation with Dutch National Opera around the Amsterdam Rainbow Dress – a huge dress made from flags of countries with anti-LGBTQIA+ legislation. We will connect stories of queer refugees to it and create an immersive sound and vocal installation that can be experienced during WorldPride.

Finally, for November Music I am writing my first string quartet. The piece focuses on queer meeting places in Amsterdam: from clubs to saunas, from gardens to the Dam. Each movement has its own character and atmosphere. It is a very bare line-up, without the “decor” of orchestra or electronics, and precisely for that reason a thrilling challenge. It feels like a natural next step in which many of these themes and worlds converge.

What would you like to say to composition students and recent graduates?
I would say: stay ambitious and take yourself seriously. The contemporary music world is small and competitive, with relatively few commissions available. If you feel that this is truly your path, make sure you fully commit to it.

Do not wait around to be “discovered”. Keep composing even when there is no commission on the table. Approach people yourself, seek contact with ensembles, orchestras and other makers. Be proactive: initiate projects, pitch ideas, share your work. The more you move, the more likely it is that the field will move with you.

And perhaps most importantly: explore what you genuinely want to say with your music. Not just “I want to be a composer”, but: what is my world, my sound, my story? The clearer that becomes, the stronger your work will be – and the easier it is for others to connect with it.