https://kristiansensini.bandcamp.com/album/the-invisible-art-of-inessential-beauty
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Music, in its beauty, will save us. I truly believe that.
I invite you to take half an hour and spend it with me—through these pieces I have written, which I chose to release at this very moment. A moment of confusion, uncertainty, anger, and disorientation, in which we are all involved. No one is excluded. Everywhere.
I recorded this short collection of pieces in the solitude of my studio. Alone. With only the piano. This is, of course, a non-commercial project. It couldn’t be otherwise. It wouldn’t make sense. In it, I pour my doubts, my fears, and the uncertainty of our times.
It is a series of pieces that may sound melancholic. But perhaps more than melancholy, they express the questions that so many of us carry within. And so, music becomes a way to share what we all feel—to make us feel less alone.
There is no joy in these pieces. That was not the intention. It simply is what it is—a snapshot of our present.
The title hints at the fact that music is both fascinating and frightening. It can be, of course—because it is an invisible art, untouchable, living only in the present, in the moment. And I invite you to live this moment together with me.
Music is also, in a way, unnecessary. It exists for itself. And its beauty, its greatness, lies precisely in this—in its ineffability and, at the same time, in its power.
From a musical perspective, I don’t know why, but many of these pieces seem infused with an influence of early music, especially medieval sacred music. It wasn’t an intentional choice, yet the sacred—whatever it may represent for each of us—emerges naturally in the notes and harmonies of these compositions.
Everything you hear was composed, recorded, and played by me. I am not a pianist. I never have been. I hope you will forgive the small technical imperfections that come with this album, but I preferred to be the one behind the piano keys, to leave my presence in the music. After recording, listening back, and hearing myself behind the black and white keys, I realized that a project this intimate wouldn’t have made sense if performed by anyone other than me.
I invite you to listen to these pieces with me. To take half an hour of your time and step away from the routine of social media, which has become not just a tool for distraction but for oppression.
These pieces come from my observation of the world around me and my inner world. From the realization of what it means to constantly embrace both the intimate terror that exists in the world—the unspeakable horrors—and, at the same time, the quiet beauty that surrounds us every day.
Experiencing such intense emotions almost daily is overwhelming. Writing and playing these pieces is my way of processing, of confronting the reality around me and the thoughts that echo within.
I hope you find some solace and reflection in these pieces. Enjoy listening.
Intrusive Thoughts is a restless, unfiltered exploration of the mind’s darker corners, where fleeting calm is constantly interrupted by insistent, jagged melodies. The piece shifts between uneasy stillness and surging momentum, with stark contrasts in dynamics and pacing that mirror the intrusive nature of unwanted thoughts. Moments of clarity dissolve into dissonance, repetition becomes obsession, and resolution remains just out of reach. It’s a raw, intimate dialogue between control and chaos—never settling, never quite letting go.
Winter Walk captures the quiet solitude of a cold, crisp day, where each step on frozen ground echoes in the still air. The piece moves with a steady, reflective pace, evoking the contrast between the sharp bite of winter and the quiet warmth of introspection. Sparse, delicate melodies drift like snowflakes, while deeper, resonant chords bring a sense of weight—like distant thoughts lingering beneath the surface. There’s no rush, just the rhythm of breath and footsteps, the hush of a world wrapped in ice and silence.
Insane Tenderness is a fragile balance between sweetness and unease, a dialogue between gentle caresses and subtle tension. The melody unfolds with delicate grace, yet beneath the surface, tremors of restlessness stir, as if the calm could shatter at any moment. There is a suspended beauty, but also an underlying mystery that lingers between the notes—like a whisper hiding behind a smile. The chords brush against serenity, yet they reveal a shadow, a quiet anguish that seeps in unnoticed. This is music that embraces, but within its touch lies an enigma, a barely perceptible disquiet that leaves the listener floating between comfort and uncertainty.
Making Love is a fleeting collision of passion and melancholy, where intensity burns bright yet fades just as quickly. The piece sways between urgent, feverish movement and aching stillness, mirroring the way bodies and souls intertwine—only to be left in the quiet aftermath. Beneath the warmth, there’s a subtle sorrow, an unspoken awareness of love’s impermanence. Like the ancient saying “post coitum omne animal triste est,” the music captures that strange, inevitable sadness that lingers in the wake of pleasure—a longing within fulfillment, a tenderness already touched by absence.
Moonlit Droplets was composed in November 2016, during the announcement of the Supermoon phenomenon, just days before the birth of my son, Leo. The music, born from an improvisation, captures not only the wonder of that moment but also the deep unease and uncertainty of stepping into parenthood. It reflects a blend of pure joy and the overwhelming doubts about the future. Like the moonlit reflections in the night sky, the piece shifts between light and shadow, embodying both the beauty of new beginnings and the fear of the unknown. It is a personal journey, where awe and vulnerability coexist in delicate harmony.
Heavy Hearts is a reflection on the relentless obsessions that haunt everyday life, weighing the heart down with their persistent presence. The music pulses with an unyielding rhythm, echoing the constant pressure of thoughts that refuse to dissipate, like shadows that stretch further with every step. There is no release, no respite—just an ongoing cycle of worry, longing, and doubt. The melodies twist and turn in a loop, at times building with urgency, only to fall back into the same heavy groove. It’s a journey without an end, where the heart, burdened and restless, seeks a peace that always seems just out of reach.
Some Kind of Freedom is a poetic meditation on death, particularly the disappearance of those we hold dear, who, in their final moments, seemed to embrace death as a form of release. The title reflects this sense of liberation, the freedom that can be found in the end of suffering. This piece was born from an improvisation on the piano, recorded shortly after the passing of someone close to me, and takes the shape of a slow waltz. It draws inspiration from the contemplative, languid waltzes of Satie, whose music often encapsulated a similar blend of melancholy and quiet grace. The harmony, though rooted in a minor key, shifts unexpectedly between moments of serenity and sorrow, briefly glimpsing major chords that offer a sense of calm, only to return to the somber path. The music itself mirrors the ambiguity of our thoughts on death—sweet yet bitter, comforting yet sorrowful. It reflects the complexity of loss, where grief and peace coexist, and no clear, definitive judgment can be made. The piece unfolds gently, allowing room for personal reflection, where the listener might find both solace and a deeper understanding of the delicate nature of life and its inevitable end.
Waiting for Godot is a piece born from a simple yet powerful idea: to explore the limits of an ostinato. At the core of the composition lies a single note—C—played as a quarter note, repeated relentlessly throughout the entire piece. This unyielding repetition serves as the foundation upon which the piece unfolds. As the harmony and melody gradually evolve around this central C, the ostinato subtly shifts in value, altering its sense and atmosphere. It remains constant in its slow, steady march, much like the ticking of a clock, marking time in its unrelenting rhythm and bending time itself. The title, *Waiting for Godot*, encapsulates the essence of this concept: the anticipation of something—or someone—that may never arrive. There’s a quiet, almost existential tension, an unresolved yearning that echoes through the simplicity of the repeating C. In the piano version, this idea manifests in the continuous, gradual shifts that keep the listener in a state of suspended expectation. The piece begins and ends with the same sequence of C notes, but in the final moments, the ostinato suddenly dissolves into silence. In a symbolic gesture, I chose to leave this track as the last on the album, mirroring the sense of unresolved anticipation that lingers in life—an ending that doesn’t quite feel like closure, leaving the listener suspended in a state of expectation, much like the unresolved waiting for something that may never come.