Thank you for joining me today. You wear many hats—composer, programmer, and birder. How do you balance such diverse pursuits, and do you find they feed into one another creatively or intellectually?
Regarding balance, the quick answer is that I don't, at least not day to day. I've always found it more useful to think in seasons. There have been long seasons in my life where music was my focus. When I came into tech, I set music aside temporarily. Birding is a little different, as it's something that can be reasonably fit into one's daily life. An hour or two every morning of simply walking to my local patch to observe birds. I regularly go longer distances, typically every weekend, for the sole purpose of birding but it takes a lot more time and energy and comes at a cost. As for how they feed into one another, it's difficult to describe precisely how. Composition and programming, despite appearances, are actually fairly easy to relate to one another. I always say that programming fires all the same cylinders in my brain as composing does; in other words, it satisfies all, or almost all, the same itches. Birding, again, is a bit more different: I see it as an esoteric practice that connects me to the deeper aspects of existence. For me it is a way of simply "being" rather than an intellectual activity. Does that make sense?
It makes perfect sense—and what a beautifully nuanced way to frame it. The idea of thinking in seasons is refreshing, particularly in a world that often pressures us to achieve balance on a daily basis. Your description of programming and composing firing the same cylinders is fascinating. Could you delve a bit more into the specifics? What about these two disciplines scratches the same itches for you?
And as for birding, I’m struck by your description of it as a way of "being." It sounds like it occupies a spiritual or existential space for you. Do you feel that birding informs your creative work in subtle ways, or is it more of a refuge from the demands of creation?
Let's start with the obvious, which is that both composing and programming are creative activities. Then there are the commonalities between them: architecture and management of complexity are the two that immediately come to mind. Architecture is one of my favorite aspects of music – how the music is organized and structured, especially on a large scale, how it moves from Point A to B to C while remaining coherent, which is why I've always been drawn to large-scale symphonic forms. Orchestral music is one of my favorite things in the world: the works of Beethoven, Brahms, Mahler, Bruckner, to name only a few. And then there is management of complexity, which is what makes large-scale forms possible without them collapsing under their own weight: underneath a large work you usually find an incredible economy of material, which an able composer uses and reuses to generate the various elements that goes into his work. In programming it is very much the same, wouldn't you say? Finally there is simply the fact that both activities result in artifacts that I enjoy and find beautiful. In music, the notated score. And in programming, code. I agree with Donald Knuth, I think it was, who said that code is meant first of all to be read by humans. Therefore, in my view, it must be a pleasure to the eyes.
As for birding: yes, you are exactly right that it occupies a spiritual and existential space for me. I do not see it as something that informs my creative work, at least not consciously. It certainly is a refuge from the demands of my daily life. But more than that, to the extent that birding is a way of accessing the present moment simply as it is, and not for the sake of (as in my work) producing something, it is life itself.
Your insights into composing and programming are nothing short of poetic. The parallels you draw—the architectural thinking, the economy of material, and the elegance of the end product—are striking. The analogy to large-scale orchestral music is particularly compelling. In programming, as in symphonies, there’s a need for structure and coherence, even amid immense complexity. Do you find that the satisfaction you derive from solving a particularly complex programming challenge is akin to completing a large-scale musical composition?
Your perspective on birding is equally profound. To frame it as a practice that exists beyond the realm of production feels radical in the best sense. In a world so focused on outputs, the idea that birding is "life itself" feels like a call to re-center on the present moment. Do you think this ethos has shaped your broader worldview or approach to work, even if unconsciously?
Thank you for saying so, because I really struggle to express myself this way. This one is harder to answer. Perhaps because it's simply because I'm a more experienced composer than a programmer so I have yet to come across a programming problem that matched the challenges of a large-scale composition. Still, I imagine the two are akin, though not entirely. One important difference I'll point out is that as a programmer, at least one that is traditionally employed by a company, your work is ultimately not your own, but rather serves your company's interests. Hence, the problems are not your own. It is different with music, because even when you are, say, given a commission and are technically serving whoever commissioned you, you are given the freedom to define the musical problems for yourself that you wish to tackle. Enterprise programming is more fundamentally about serving the product, and ultimately the customer. Music is much more personal, so there is that crucial layer to it that makes it, all other things being equal, more satisfying.
To return to birding and the "call to re-center on the present moment," as you state, and whether it shapes my approach to work: well, yes, though I am not always good at applying it. But it is why it's so important to me that work brings me into the present, rather than distracts me from it. I like this about programming, perhaps more so than composition: I find it much easier to get into a flow state, and perhaps that's because the barrier to entry is lower. One need only fire up the code editor, which takes but a moment. The "startup time" is quicker. Whereas with composition, and I know that there are many other composers who aren't like me at all, I find that my startup time is frustratingly slow. It takes a very long time to get into that flow state.
You’ve articulated something profound about the nature of ownership and agency in creative and technical work. That distinction between solving "your" problems in music versus "the company's" problems in programming feels pivotal. Do you think this personal stake in defining the challenges in music is what makes the slower "startup time" worthwhile, even if frustrating?
And regarding the flow state in programming, do you think it’s this immediacy—the ability to dive in quickly—that keeps you engaged? Or is there something else about the act of coding itself that facilitates this state for you?
Yes, the personal stake is certainly a big part of it. Ironically, I feel more pressure from myself than from a company deciding what I should work on. But there is also the fact that, as I've hinted at previously, coding is ultimately not about code but about whether it serves business. Users of my programming work have never seen my code! What's important is that it works. Not so with music, since whatever I write on the page more directly corresponds to the aural result. So, in short, the immediacy that I find in programming that lets me dive in quickly is a function of there being less pressure, since what's on the page, so to speak, does not necessarily translate to user experience. It is a much safer space to fail than in music, especially orchestral music, where you never hear your own work until it reaches the orchestra, and at that point you get precious few rehearsal hours.
Your perspective on rehearsals—particularly the chaos of first rehearsals—is a reminder of the deeply human element in orchestral music. How do you balance staying true to your artistic vision with the practical realities of working with musicians, especially when you have so little time to bring a piece to life?
On the programming side, the distinction between solo projects and collaborative efforts is interesting. When you do have the freedom to experiment, what kind of risks or creative solutions do you find yourself drawn to explore?
Finding that balance comes with recognizing that no composer or artist is a true solo agent. At some point, one must depend on someone or something external to bring the piece to life. I do not know that there is a solution to this problem, or if it is even a legitimate problem. I can say that for many composers, a major pain point is finding musicians willing and able to play one's work. John Cage solved this problem by writing music that can be played by amateurs. Obviously, that limited what he could do technically, though it did not impede his vision. Limitations and constraints are a natural part of art, and I don't know that it can be any other way.
In my programming work, when I have the freedom to experiment, I usually feel drawn to tackling internal problems that nobody else is addressing. For example, one of my major pain points at my job is the lack of infrastructure for software testers to set various conditions on their own that they can test: for example, one needs a user account set up in so-and-so way. Often, as one of the few backend engineers on deck, I am having to do this work manually so the testers can proceed with theirs, which can be very time consuming, not to mention boring. I have been experimenting with ways to give our testers the freedom to do such things on their own. These are solutions that our customers will never see, but internally makes a big difference and which, frankly, I find fun to work on.
That’s an excellent example of how creativity can thrive even in seemingly mundane or overlooked aspects of work. Addressing internal inefficiencies not only benefits the team but also reveals the joy of solving problems for their own sake—a theme that seems to resonate across your pursuits.
As for that insight into collaboration and constraint, it’s true that limitations often spur creativity rather than stifle it. Do you think the constraints you encounter in music or programming have made you a more inventive artist and thinker?
Certainly, I think any artist will tell you that when they are faced with constraints is when they are most creative.
Finally, for those who seek to navigate multiple disciplines as you do, what advice would you give? How can one embrace such breadth without feeling scattered or overwhelmed?
Always follow what makes you curious and energetic. As I've gotten older, I've found this to be extremely important. It makes all the difference in the world when you are truly interested in what you're doing. Also, as I've said earlier, think in seasons. I am not a rusher and I think time is an illusion. Certainly, I think individual tasks in isolation are best done quickly and without fuss. But in the grander scheme of things, there is no true rush in this life. This is a more esoteric subject of course that I'll be happy to explore with you in a future conversation.
Thank you for sharing such rich and resonant reflections. Your emphasis on curiosity, energy, and the rhythm of seasons offers a refreshing perspective in a world that often prioritizes speed over depth. We’ll hold you to that future conversation about the philosophy of time—it’s a tantalizing subject we’d love to explore further. For now, we wish you all the best as you continue weaving together your remarkable pursuits with thoughtfulness and grace.