Why traditional Orchestra -photography is counterproductive – and what ChatGPT has to say about it

My passion lies in photographing orchestras during rehearsals—for two reasons: First, I am fascinated by the process itself. Second, behind-the-scenes photography appeals to people beyond the classical music bubble—if done well.

Since I follow many orchestra pages on social media, I see daily images of rehearsals and performances, often captioned with words like passionate, explosive, or torn by inner struggles. However, it's important to understand that a photograph reaches the brain much faster than words. When I look at these images and read the accompanying text, it inevitably feels as if an uninspiring product is being dressed up with flashy marketing. It seems forced.

Of course, I don’t doubt that Orchestra X, under Conductor Y, interpreted Piece Z in a truly sensational and explosive manner. But I am an insider. I find it hard to believe that someone outside the classical music bubble, after viewing these images, would genuinely perceive a concert as an intense experience.

Photography is about capturing fleeting moments that will never occur again. The fact that the images shown on social media fail to utilize these unique moments is counterproductive—especially if, as is often claimed, the goal is to attract new audiences to classical music.

An orchestra rehearsal is full of moments that can captivate even those who don’t consider classical music a top priority in their personal playlists. Even if the orchestra consists of reserved and introverted individuals, a compelling composition and a great deal of patience can still capture moments that truly reflect the descriptions of passionate and intense.

The presentation of photographs is also a moment that cannot be repeated. Once the perception has settled that classical music is neither exciting, nor emotional, nor moving, it becomes incredibly difficult to change that image.

And what does Chat GPT say?

While preparing for my talk at the European Arts and Business Forum—on the topic “What makes classical music timely?”—I asked ChatGPT, partly out of punk-like laziness, partly out of curiosity, what the difference was between rock ‘n’ roll photography and orchestra photography.

It answered:
"Rock ‘n’ roll is part of an era of change and new beginnings. This is reflected in its photography through intense emotions. Classical music, on the other hand, is deeply rooted in tradition and history. Its photography documents its artistic heritage and the continuity of its masterpieces."

Of course, you could dismiss this as just a bot parroting something it picked up somewhere. And, fundamentally, that’s exactly what ChatGPT does. Which is precisely why there’s probably truth in it.

So I more or less threw this very statement at the forum as my answer to the question “What makes classical music timely?” That, and the fact that I try to give classical music more emotion through the visual language of rock ‘n’ roll.

Admittedly, not everyone in the audience shared my enthusiasm. But the hugs at the buffet made up for it.

Why I´m doing this and how I work.

I created this project for two reasons. First, because I want to show the punks among you how incredibly intense this music can be—when it’s played well. Secondly, because I would like to give you a behind-the-scenes look at the world of classical music. Perhaps your image of musicians is quite different from the one I am presenting to you. That’s why the photos for this project aren’t perfectly posed portraits. They show musicians doing what they love, in moments where they’re giving their all or in situations where they didn’t have time to change or fix their hair before I pressed the shutter. And all of it behind the scenes, away from the stage lights. The pictures are raw and direct—just the way I like them.

What you need to know about classical music? Nothing.

Maybe you’re wondering why a punk is so passionate about classical music. For me, the answer is simple: the essence of punk is that music can make a huge impact when it’s honest. And while it’s often perceived differently by the public, classical music is incredibly honest. At least most of the time. So honest that I sometimes stagger home after a concert, completely disoriented, because someone has just laid their soul bare before me.

This project is my way of capturing those moments and sharing them with you. You don’t need to know anything about classical music, and you don’t need to understand it. All that matters is what this music stirs within you. Perhaps it will surprise you as much as it surprised me.

Like every photographer, I have a camera. Nothing extraordinary—just an average model with a digital viewfinder that allows me to compose my shots in black and white while photographing.

Like every photographer I arrive on time. Arriving at least 30 minutes before an orchestra rehearsal isn’t just about courtesy. I settle into a corner, put on my headphones, and listen to music: dEUS, Motörhead, The Clash, Miles Davis, Kraftwerk. This helps me avoid slipping into the typical visual language of classical music when shooting.

Of course, my goal is to make the orchestra look as good as possible. But I'm not looking for the scenes that everyone already knows—I seek those that build trust and create tension.

I love my shoes. But before I take a single photo, my first rule is to take them off and move silently, like a cat, through the hall. What I’m looking for won’t surprise anyone familiar with photography: I’m searching for the light. No light, no photography—and without interesting light, no good photography. My camera stays in its case—right next to my shoes, so I can find them later—until I feel like I truly know the space. Even if it sounds pretentious, I try to become a part of the space.

Only then do I reach for my camera. I quickly sense who enjoys being photographed and who doesn’t. Some people are genuinely uncomfortable with a photographer’s presence, and I respect that completely.

After the shoot—which can last up to six hours—the concert hall’s porter usually recommends a good restaurant. There, I go through my shots, selecting the best ones, and begin editing. I send the images to my orchestra contact, knowing that some will be rejected—and that’s fine. Everyone has their own idea of how they want to be presented.

A few days or weeks later, the photos are published in a magazine, online, or as an exhibition—offering a completely new perspective on the orchestra, interesting for people, who have had no previous contact with classical music .

The “Eine kleine Nachtmusik - syndrome”

"Mozart was a child prodigy."
"Beethoven composed while deaf."
"Bruckner had to walk two hours to his organ lessons."

Teenagers find these stories impressive. I know this because I spent many years teaching music in an inner-city school.

They stay interested—until I lean back and play them something classical, perhaps Mozart’s Eine kleine Nachtmusik. It’s a piece that has been played to death, inevitably associated with stiffly seated people, but at least they recognize it from commercials. The moment the first Taa – tataa – tatatatataa sounds, the front row starts chatting with the back, a mysterious epidemic of bladder weakness sweeps the room, and under the desks, cigarettes are being rolled.

But if instead, I choose Barber’s Adagio, conduct along, and lose myself in its pain—without any fear of making a fool of myself in front of the class—a group of wannabe gangsters and soap opera starlets stare at me, wondering if their teacher has lost his mind. But only for a moment. For the encore, I play Mahler’s Adagietto from the Fifth Symphony to a now silent classroom.

That was years ago.

That I now use photography to free classical music from the Eine kleine Nachtmusik – Syndrome  feels only logical. With the right partners, I can reach so many more people. And I’m not doing much differently: I present something new. I try to meet people where they are through visual storytelling. I build on emotions. I don’t try to sell classical music as something it isn’t. It isn’t cool in the youthful sense. It isn’t hip. But it moves like no other music, sometimes to the point of giving me chills. And that feeling—I want to share.

But I don’t always want sex.

The idea that classical music is emotionless is a common cliché—and in a way, it’s true if you compare it directly to a rock concert. But it’s not entirely true; the emotions are just different.

The pressure from the speakers, the bass forming a toxic relationship with treble-heavy guitars, hitting you in the gut and surging through your legs—this has the power to unleash incredible euphoria. Of course, everyone experiences it differently, but to me, it feels like sex. Mick Jagger supposedly said that rock ‘n’ roll is a substitute for sex. But maybe I don’t always want sex.

While I can easily categorize the emotions I feel at a great rock concert, I struggle to do the same with classical music. Take Anton Bruckner, for example. He was a master at lulling you into a state of relative emotional order—only to then unleash his deepest fears and doubts on you, completely uninvited. That can be exhausting. Not least because Bruckner clearly had a lot to say acoustically. And there’s also the question: Do I really want such a deep glimpse into another person’s psyche? But if you enjoy RTL’s “Help! I’ve Fallen and I Can’t Get Up!”-style reality shows, you might also appreciate Franz Schubert’s Impromptus.

Of course, I know that when I go to a concert featuring certain composers, I’m signing up for an emotional striptease—like in the fourth movement of Mahler’s Fifth Symphony, Samuel Barber’s Adagio, or Edward Elgar’s Cello Concerto in E minor. That’s not for the faint of heart. You need a reasonably stable personality to still give the world a chance after the concert is over.