The face of Kirill Richter is on posters across London. It looks out from the wall of the Coliseum, heralding the premiere of his orchestral fantasy, Sands of Time. This is not the face you expect to see advertising a symphony. It is too young, too contemporary. It is the face of a composer for whom the boundaries between high art and pop culture, the digital and the analog, have become wonderfully porous.

To trace Richter's path is to see a portrait of the artist in the twenty-first century. This is a story of how a degree in design, a fascination with historical reenactments, and a deep love for Harry Potter can become the foundation for a new and vital symphonic music.

The London Connection

Richter’s relationship with London is not just another tour date; it's a return to a source. "So much of my life is connected to this city," he admits. He studied here, at the British Higher School of Art and Design, and it was the British approach to education that taught him the principle that now guides his work: the art of "deep research."

For Richter, an artist of the digital age, inspiration is an act of deliberate pilgrimage outside the borders of his own art form. "I think it's foolish to write music inspired by music," he says. "You should be inspired by people, by history, by literature." To create something truly new, he believes, you must look elsewhere.

From Shakespeare to 'Avada Kedavra'

When Richter speaks of his influences, he moves with ease across centuries and genres. He discusses his recent ballet, The Seven Ages, based on Shakespeare’s famous monologue, and the research that went into it - from legends of the fountain of youth to the paintings of Hieronymus Bosch. Yet, in a move that feels distinctly modern, he insisted that the lead role, representing the seven ages of "man," be danced by a woman. "I have always supported strong women," he explains. "It was important that the character was female, so that no one could say it was only about 'man as an individual.'"

And in the next breath, with the same intellectual seriousness, he can pivot to the world of video games. He speaks with admiration for the masterpiece of the gaming world, The Last of Us, praising its cinematic scope and stunning score. Then, with a flash of boyish excitement, he describes flying a broomstick in Hogwarts Legacy as a "strange Gryffindor who somehow knew 'Avada Kedavra.'"

This reference to J.K. Rowling’s world is more than a funny aside. It becomes a metaphor for his own creative relationships. He playfully casts his trio in the roles of the famous friends: violinist Alena Zinovieva is the thoughtful Hermione, cellist Avgust Krepak is Ron, possessing the "bravest and strongest energy," and he, with a touch of irony, is left to play Harry. The analogy says more about his team than any formal description ever could: this is not just a group of musicians, but a circle bound by the interplay of different energies.

The Alchemy of the Studio

So how is Richter's music actually made? The process is far from the romantic image of a composer hunched over parchment by candlelight. Today, paper is rarely used. "I use a tablet; it saves a lot of time," he notes pragmatically. The core method is improvisation, hours of it, all recorded. Then comes the painstaking work of sifting through the material to find the best ideas. "It's a tedious process that few can endure."

But even in this digital workflow, there is room for analog rituals. He creates mood boards, pinning handwritten notes about melodies and orchestration to his instrument. It is the work of a designer assembling references before drawing up the plans. For him, the piano is not a sacred object but a tool, a magic wand. Pianists, he says, are "more like sailors," playing on whatever instrument is available in each new port. This sense of detachment allows him to switch roles: in the studio, he is the composer, and on stage, he is the performer, sending waves of energy into the "ocean" of the hall.

Despite his growing fame, he maintains a quiet perspective. He photographs the posters with his face on them for his mother, believing that in our time, one often has to "sell abstract art with your own face." His music, he says, has taken on a life of its own, separate from his personality. The sounds you hear at the Olympics or in a video game are no longer connected to him, the individual. And in that, he feels, there is something right.