Francesco Tristano: reflections on living, cooking, and music

I never asked myself why I wanted to be a pianist. I guess the issue just never arose. By the time I asked myself that question, it was already too late–I was already doing it. I was at the piano, making music. And I was very grateful for that; I think many kids have a difficult time in their teens because they don't have a point of focus. In my case it was much easier, because by the time I was twelve I was playing the piano every day and I knew I was going to become a musician.

My mother always says I spend more time in the kitchen than at the piano, but it's actually the same thing. If you think about it, the piano's a piece of furniture, right? And so is the kitchen; the kitchen is made of pieces of furniture, it's structured, and doesn't really move. You can roll a piano a few meters here or there, but really it's a very stable element in the house. I started playing on an upright piano. Eventually, when I was thirteen or fourteen, I moved to a grand piano. So, since we're talking about analogies, my first kitchens were very basic kitchens, one was even a gas stove. I remember building a kitchen with my girlfriend at the time. There were some very shady builders who actually took off before they finished the kitchen, so we had to finish it on our own. The upgrade came three years ago when I got my first bulthaup.

I grew up with my Italian grandmother and she basically spent all day, every day in the kitchen. And that was just making regular food: when she made a special dinner, with tortellini or ravioli, it would become a very thorough endeavor that took hours and hours, and my great-grandmother would join in, and I would join in–in fact, everybody would join in around the table, making tortellini together. So, for me, it's the central space of the house, but it's also the place where I find time for myself. For example, when I'm done with my practicing and I take a break, I come straight to the bar, sit down, and I make myself a cup of coffee or tea. When I start cooking, I realize it's actually very close to a performance. It's very close to what a dancer would call a choreography. You calculate your movements and you optimize them. Everything goes into the taste, eventually. There's a very blurry line between what is part of the taste and what is peripheral. In bulthaup, this is a very important point, the functionality of every little detail, and I'm referring to the materials, the ergonomics of, for example, the drawers... You don't have to apply any pressure at any point, you don't have to make any effort. Everything is calculated so that you're free to make a sculpture out of your own cooking. And it really becomes a kind of performance.

The kitchen is the central area. Not only does it connect all the surrounding spaces, but it actually naturally attracts people towards the center, in the sense that when you enter the house, or when you leave my studio and you go through the apartment, you end up in center, which is where the stove is, and also where the central point of light is. It's a point of attraction, but a very natural one. It doesn't have any bright colors or aggressive shapes; it blends in with the space in a very discreet yet beautiful manner. It reminds me of a Japanese garden, where you don't have any object that really captures the eye or the attention; it's a work of detail, where you have let time go by and realize that your gaze has fixed on one object or another. And this is the case in our kitchen, I think. We spend our time there, we don't really realize why it is that we're all constantly sitting at the counter, but it's because the energy is a very positive one.

I’ve been interested in the ritualistic aspect of cooking for some time, and it seems like humans developed the idea of cooking also as something to be enjoyed together as a group, whether it’s with your family or friends. When I’m in my kitchen I extend this ritual to the actual rite of cooking.

I find that I get so much pleasure out of little details, whether it's the angle of the b1 drawers, the depth of the drawers themselves, the material–a very strong material, a material that, just like a piano, inspires sturdiness and steadiness–and then, when I’m into my ritual of cooking, into preparing food for the people I love, I realize that these people naturally gather in the kitchen, and we spend a moment of love together.

Inspiration might be overrated as a concept. Of course, as composers, we want to be inspired, we thrive on being inspired, but the truth is that there are many days when inspiration doesn't come easily, because there are so many other things to think about. More importantly, what I need in order to do my work is the right instrument. This is my instrument, the grand piano. In the kitchen it might be the same thing: you don't necessarily start off with a big inspiration, for example of blending some Thai flavors with olive oil and throw in a little Japanese nori, but when you have the right instrument–I'm talking about the stove and the cooking gear–then you just get into the flow, and you start cooking and come up with great things.