Maxim Kolomiiets: Writing Ukraine’s Fragile Truth for the World Stage

One of the most successful young Ukrainian composers of his generation, Maxim Kolomiiets is also an oboist and the author of operas, orchestral and chamber works, choral music, solo and electronic pieces, as well as scores for theater.

Now based in Leipzig, Kolomiiets is working at the intersection of Ukrainian experience and the global classical scene. His opera “The Mothers of Kherson,” written on commission from The Metropolitan Opera to a libretto by American playwright George Brant, addresses one of the most painful crimes of Russia’s full-scale invasion: the abduction and deportation of Ukrainian children. The opera premieres this year in Warsaw and is scheduled to enter the Met’s repertoire in 2027 – an artistic testimony set to resonate far beyond Ukraine.

Kyiv Post (KP): You were born in Kyiv and educated in both Ukraine and Germany. How did the journey from the Lysenko School to Cologne shape your musical language and worldview?

Maxim Kolomiiets (MK): I want to emphasize that the Lysenko School gave me an outstanding education – not only because of exceptional teachers, but also because I was fanatically in love with music (nothing has changed) and worked relentlessly. The competitive environment, total immersion, and extremely high standards pushed us forward. The most important thing I learned there was discipline: to work constantly on oneself and never be fully satisfied with the result. Music, above all, is discipline – a pinch of talent and a mountain of work. I never had obvious brilliance. What I had was love for music, which required self-discipline.

Cologne was the complete opposite. I arrived there at 33, already largely formed as a musician. No one guided me; I didn’t even know which classes to attend. It was total freedom. Development came not so much from formal study as from immersion in context – meeting outstanding musicians, hearing music I had never encountered, studying scores I had never seen, and collaborating with artists whose names I once knew only from CD covers.

If I had to sum it up: the Lysenko School gave me discipline and tools. Cologne forced me to forget those tools and realize that music can be radically different – and that it’s you who decides what it will be.

KP: You trained as an oboist, but composition became your calling. When did writing music turn from a profession into an inner necessity?

MK: It always was. I started writing music at six, while studying in the preparatory class at the Lysenko School – before formal training even began. After a solfège lesson where we were shown mysterious symbols called notes, I came home and started drawing them in a notebook. I was fascinated by the idea that signs on paper could turn into sound, and sound into emotion.

I listened for hours to piano overtones; they felt spatial and cinematic. I even painted the keys black and red – some sounded like fire engines, others like police cars. Music was magic. Not even music itself, but sound as such.

For a long time, I didn’t dare imagine becoming a composer – the figure of a composer felt unattainable. I had no teacher who could explain what composition actually consisted of. Only later, when I entered the class of Ukrainian composer Alla Zagaykevych – an educator who opened completely new musical horizons for me – did I write my first major work – a string quartet.

So, I wanted to compose from the moment I encountered notes. But the road to the first opus was long and extremely difficult.

KP: You co-founded the contemporary music ensemble Ensemble Nostri Temporis. What role do such initiatives play during wartime?

MK: We created the ensemble out of necessity. At that moment, it was almost the only way to be heard, to produce and present our own music. But we learned an enormous amount. I completely rethought my compositional style and gained invaluable performing experience. I saw from the inside how the musical process is organized: the idea of a concert, logistics, programming, getting the scores, rehearsals, performance. This kind of experience is almost impossible to gain any other way.

Young ensembles today are going through the same process. That experience shapes who they become. Grassroots initiatives, in my view, must form the bloodstream of Ukrainian contemporary music. I have little faith in the state in this regard. If Ukrainian contemporary music has a future, it lies in private, bottom-up initiatives.

I deeply respect everyone who, in these times, keeps going – founding ensembles, organizing concerts, or running festivals.

KP: Your music often engages with fragility, memory, and painful experience. How much of that is conscious, and how much intuitive?

MK: I don’t really choose these themes. For me, music comes from deep within your personality – it is, in a sense, who you are. Bringing that inner self to the surface is painful and fragile by definition. So in a way, all my music is about fragility and the contemplation of vulnerability through sound.

What remains intuitive? Lately, almost everything. I used to think a lot about music, and that had its purpose. Now I try not to think at all. If you can explain music, it means it doesn’t work. Music must remain magic, even for the composer.

I try to listen to it and simply allow it to exist, helping it materialize on paper. At this stage, intuition governs almost everything – at least on the level of ideas and material.

KP: “The Mothers of Kherson,” commissioned by the Metropolitan Opera, addresses one of the war’s most painful crimes – the abduction of Ukrainian children. Peter Gelb, the Met’s general manager, said the aim of this new opera is to “support Ukraine culturally in its fight for freedom.” How did you find a musical language that preserves both artistic depth and ethical precision?

MK: It was a very difficult process because of the many constraints. The music must be intense and dramatic, but not overly complex. These are not mythological heroes or characters from Alban Berg’s operas – they are ordinary women from Kherson, speaking a simple, everyday language.

It had to be a contemporary opera, but not too avant-garde, because we are addressing the widest possible audience, and the music must be accessible. You can use sharp harmonies or rhythms, but the central theme of the opera is a lullaby. It acts like a tuning fork that aligns the entire style of the piece.

It took me about a month just to find the first bar. I spent time in New York, observing how the Met works and what it is oriented towards. And while the final listener may be a New Yorker, this still has to be a Ukrainian opera. I used many Ukrainian themes. I think Ukrainian listeners will recognize them – and that recognition matters.

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