Geenius interviewed composer Ardo Ran Varres about the impact of artificial intelligence on authors and the creative sector as a whole. Varres explained the problematic way AI generates music, how AI developers might be required to compensate creators, and how dark the future could become for people working in the arts.

https://geenius.delfi.ee/artikkel/120586146/see-on-nurjatu-skeem-helilooja-ardo-ran-varres-naeb-tehisarus-ohtu-loomeinimeste-tulevikule

Article by Vahur Laiapea - movie director, producer and operator

• Varres graduated from the Music High School as a clarinetist, studied acting, but eventually found his way back to music.
• In addition to creating his own music, he teaches students of music culture and musicology at the Estonian Academy of Music and Theatre (EAMT).
• For last year’s Estonian Song Festival, the festival’s artistic director Heli Jürgenson commissioned him to write the final song for the combined choirs’ concert.

We last met Ardo perhaps four years ago. Or has it already been five? In any case, Russia’s massacre in Ukraine had not yet begun. I had become captivated by the idea of staging Russian writer Andrei Platonov’s short story Semyon - or perhaps his longer work Dzhan - in a theatre somewhere. That was what I wanted to talk to Ardo about then.

To discuss how Platonov’s texts might be translated into the language of theatre with the help of the language of music. I gave him Platonov’s books to take with him. Now, when we met, he returned them to me. No one has translated Platonov into theatrical language, but anything is still possible.

Ardo comes from EAMT. The Estonian Academy of Music and Theatre. He takes a stack of papers out of his briefcase, filled with dense handwriting by students. I glance through them. They certainly know how to write. The girls have beautiful handwriting; the boys less beautiful, though not downright ugly. No mistakes catch my eye. Why handwritten? So that the use of aids would be excluded during the assessment. The internet. AI.

The students had written down answers in the lecture hall to Ardo’s questions about film music and its creation. Music in film is, in fact, the subject Ardo teaches at EAMT.

I, too, became acquainted with Ardo through the music he wrote long ago for my documentary series Hospital Stories and later for several other documentary films. Long ago means twenty-five years ago. Ardo was young then. Under thirty. I was middle-aged. Now Ardo is middle-aged. Me? As well.

Growing Up

Ardo’s childhood home stood between the television and radio buildings. He is not the child of musicians. But. His mother could play the violin. An ERSO cellist lived and practiced through the wall. One floor above lived Leo Normet’s family. Outside, Ardo played with Kadri-Ann, the daughter of Lepo Sumera. His father had once played the saxophone during Päts’s era. An aunt was a piano lecturer. So becoming infected with music was not impossible.

His mother, a designer by profession, thought pragmatically. Her son could enter the Music High School in Kivimäe. Students there received a stipend. He enrolled. From the sixth grade onward, he studied the clarinet.

He received the stipend as well, but it took time. It was only paid in secondary school. By the end of secondary school, a plastic bag was needed to carry the stipend rubles home. The rubles clattered loudly; the kroon was still some time away.

Déjà Vu Into the Future

It was not Ardo’s dream to become a professional musician. He thought he was attending a school with a “specialization” - just as a friend attended a school specializing in English. Once the specialized school was over, one could go wherever one’s heart called. It ended. Where did his heart call him? Déjà vu is said to be a vision of a situation one seems to have seen before it actually occurs. In 1988, however, Ardo saw a vision of the future. He saw that he would enter the Drama School to study acting - and that he would certainly be admitted. In 1988 he also saw one real thing without any vu attached to it - the legendary production of Hamlet by the Drama School’s 13th graduating class.

In 1992, the vision from four years earlier came true. Ardo became a student at the Drama School. Before that, there had been the Music High School graduation ceremony. A performance with ERSO under the direction of Tõnu Kaljuste. And then the clarinet went onto a shelf. The specialized school had come to an end.

“I wanted to be on stage, not in the pit in front of the stage,” Ardo says about his choices. “I wanted to be up there, not down below.” He smiles to himself. Yet behind the smile, one can probably glimpse the ears of recognition belonging to that era.

“Let’s wind the years forward.” That is how Ardo put it. Wind them forward.

In 2016, Kalju Komissarov’s 70th birthday celebration was held at Rakvere Theatre. The maestro sat in an armchair in the middle of the stage. One graduating class after another of those who had finished theatre school under his guidance came onto the stage to greet and congratulate their teacher. Ardo’s was the 17th class.

At one point, Komissarov came over to Ardo.

“What instrument did you study? Saxophone?”

“Clarinet.”

“You know, when you applied to drama school, someone from the wind instruments department called me. The caller said: ‘Don’t admit him to drama school. We want him for ourselves.’”

*I am taking him precisely because of that,* Komissarov is said to have thought at that moment. And he did take him.

“They bargained over me like a cow,” says Ardo.

He believes he knows who the caller was, but keeps it to himself.

It was a life-changing moment. But do we really know which moments are - or are not - life-changing?

Let’s wind the years back. This time to 1992. Ardo took part in the entrance examinations for drama school in an excerpt from Samuel Beckett’s Endgame, directed by Peeter Raudsepp. Accepted. Ardo is in drama school; he is a student. From his years there, Ardo mostly has negative memories. Fear of Komissarov’s red lights. In other words, the fear, at times, of being thrown out. If you did not do exactly as you were told. There were those who were expelled. Too pragmatic an approach, too much craftsmanship, too much dismantling people into sticks and pieces, Ardo recalls. “I never found my footing there.”

From later years, one role remains especially vivid in Ardo’s memory. The role of the Chansonnier - or, in Estonian, šansonjeer - the narrator in Heinz Karl Gruber’s stage work Frankenstein, which the composer described as a pandemonium. It was a mad piece, one in which the skills of a musician-actor found their proper place. It reached the stage as a collaboration between the Von Krahl Theatre and the Estonian National Opera. And Ardo was on stage as a soloist, not down in the orchestra pit. The clarinet did not dry out on the shelf. He continued making music. Especially with the Sad Music Ensemble (Kurva Muusika Ansambel). We remember it. It was good. A pity it no longer exists.

To Rakvere Theatre after graduating from drama school. Five years of intensive and fruitful acting work. “In Rakvere, I found my footing,” says Ardo. Roles in many productions. I will not make a list of them here. Everything is there in the productions database. This was also where he began composing music for stage productions and films.

The years 2001–2003 at the Estonian Drama Theatre as an actor. “There were not enough roles for me,” says Ardo. “Directors do not see you,” Priit Pedajas told him. His faith in himself takes a blow. And when Ardo is offered the position of head of the theatre’s music department for the third time, he accepts. He does that job until 2011.

There is grief for the stage and for creating on stage. Alcohol creeps closer and begins taking up too large a portion of life. From 2009 to 2011, Ardo completes a master’s degree in composition at EAMT. The year 2011 becomes a turning point. There is a choice to be made - which way to fall. Toward decline or toward creation. Ardo chooses creation. Increasingly with a tilt toward concert music.

A Mournful Cry and Other Creations

About a year ago, Ardo was in Kuhmoinen, Finland, with his family. Life in a lakeside mökki. Two loons lived and went about their business on the lake. They cried out. Ardo recorded their calls. “A mournful cry,” he says of that sound. From that mournful cry, a work for alto flute and electronics began to emerge, titled Gavia Arctica. That is the Arctic loon’s name in Latin. This coming summer, on 9 August 2026, an author concert of Ardo’s music will take place at Holdre Manor. The world premiere of Gavia Arctica is expected to take place there.

At the moment, Ardo is working on music for Hardi Volmer’s animated biographical film about Georg Lurich, as well as on a piece for two cellos. He also wrote the music for Jaak Kilmi’s feature film Shadow (Vari). In 2022, a clarinet concerto and an opera were completed and premiered. Just a few examples.

One unforgettable creation - probably for Ardo, but also for a great many singers, musicians, and listeners. For the 2025 Song Festival, the festival’s artistic director Heli Jürgenson commissioned Ardo to write the final song for the combined choirs’ concert.

The place and moment of its performance were as prestigious as possible - in the finale of the Song Festival, at the closing concert. The Source (Allikas) - that was the title eventually given to the commissioned work. It is about a spring. And about birth, joy, and preservation. For half a year, Ardo dug through the works of Estonian poets in search of words suitable for creating the music. He found none. Instead, he commissioned the lyrics from Hasso Krull. And then words were born to which music could be born. The opening lines of the work already lift the reader above the ground. What then can be said of the entire work, of the combined force of music and words, when it is sung beneath the Song Festival Arch by 30,000 singers?

There were still months to go before the Song Festival, yet the song was already making things happen in Estonia. On the Facebook page of the Sütiste Forest Society, there is a 2024 post defending the Spring of Joy (Rõõmuallikas) in the Nõmme–Mustamäe Landscape Conservation Area, which was threatened with destruction during the reconstruction of a ski bridge. The post appeared together with the opening words of The Source:

“A spring in the forest, long has it been born,
the only spring for sister and brother.”

Lennart Meri’s Smile

“It is good to be where you are able to search,” Ardo said during our meeting.

And it is sensible to search where there is hope of finding something. Not like the drunkard who searches for his lost key beneath a lamppost because that is where the light is. That addition comes from my own inner monologue.

A person’s life must contain the courage to make major, life-changing decisions from time to time. In 2011, amid a great crisis, Ardo moved to Tartu with his family. At the time, the family was still small - his wife Maria and Karl, who had just reached school age. By now there are three children. Marta is eleven, and Margaret is eight. Since 2011, the free man Ardo Ran Varres has lived as a freelance creator and composer. Is his footing secure? “Both feet are on the ground.”

How does a free man create? For example, like this. When life offers an exciting moment, a flash, an idea that might deserve to settle and grow into a work, Ardo writes it down in his notebook.

Writes it in a notebook? By hand and with a pencil?

Oh no.

He taps it into his phone.

I ask him to show me an idea. The best ones remain hidden, naturally. But one is shared.

The idea has been recorded under the keywords “Lennart Meri’s Smile.” A fairly young Ardo, though no longer a child, once shook the hand of President Lennart Meri in Tallinn’s Town Hall Square during some event. He said, “Greetings, Mr President.” The President looked Ardo in the eye and replied: “A strong voice and a strong handshake. That’s how it should be.”

And that was the flash.

Perhaps something could be created from it, though Ardo thinks he probably never will.

A work with the title: “Lennart Meri’s Smile.”

https://kultuur.postimees.ee/8473484/inimestest-aegamooda-ardo-ran-varres-gavia-arctica-kurb-kriisk

 

During the Klassikaraadio talk show “Pähklipureja,” the question was raised about whether using artificial intelligence to create theater music is a problem or an innovation. According to composer and field expert Ardo Ran Varres, AI applications call into question the very concept of a composer in the creation of original music. He added that it may no longer make sense to award a prize for original music at all.

Varres sent a letter of concern to Estonian theater leaders and the Eesti Autorite Ühing (EAÜ), prompted by the jury’s work on this year’s theater awards in the original music category. The jury was impressed by the music of a production that, as later emerged, had been created using the AI application Suno. This raises the question: who is the composer, and what is authorship, at a time when anyone can create sound works using AI tools?

Varres has worked in musical design for stage productions for nearly 30 years and serves as chairman of the original music jury. “When I meet a director who gives me a brief, I need to understand it - what is expected of me and what I can do to support the dramaturgy and the production. That requires extensive preparation, continuous learning, and knowledge of instruments and music history,” he explained.

“In principle, I might compose a simple piano piece. If it fits the production, I am the composer - the author of the original music. The moment I complete the work, copyright law automatically applies. I don’t need to register or prove it anywhere. If I were to pass away, my heirs would still have the right to collect royalties from that work for 70 years after my death.”

The composer delivers the finished work to the production and enters into a contractual relationship with the theater to receive fair compensation. “The work is not performed for free. When the audience buys tickets, the composer is entitled to royalties from that revenue. These amounts are negotiated—there are no fixed tariffs. It can be a one-time fee or a percentage of ticket sales,” Varres said, adding that EAÜ can also act as a representative, collecting and distributing royalties.

In traditional registration without AI, rights are typically split 50/50 between the lyricist and the composer. On the EAÜ website, it is now possible to list AI as an arranger, but its share is set to zero percent.

“In some countries, that percentage may be above zero, with royalties shared among contributors, because tools like Suno have been trained—often illegally—on other people’s work accumulated over centuries. If you use that work for your own benefit, it may be reasonable to share royalties,” Varres noted. “My experimental piece is a small example, but the same issue could arise with a viral hit generating millions.”

Last year, the music of a major state theater production astonished the jury with its powerful, cinematic orchestral sound. “It seemed worthy of the top prize—until one jury member checked the composer’s background. There was no evidence of formal training in composition or orchestration. That raised doubts: where was it recorded, and how was the orchestra funded? In Estonia, perhaps only a few people could achieve that level professionally—and even they lack such financial resources,” Varres said.

“Eventually, the director confirmed that the music had been arranged with Suno AI. The original input may have been significant, but the final sound is essentially a shortcut to a grand cinematic style. This raises the question: if we have an original music award, should it be given in such cases—or discontinued altogether? Where does the composer’s craft end?” he asked, emphasizing that craftsmanship remains central, even if it sounds “old-fashioned.”

“Now we have a machine that has effectively absorbed all the world’s music—not just harmonies and melodies, but also timbres, instrument sounds, recording techniques, and amplifier characteristics. The know-how of sound itself has been appropriated. The concept of the composer is clearly being challenged in theater and film music,” Varres concluded.

According to Mati Kaalep, head of the Eesti Autorite Ühing, this is a pivotal moment: machines are no longer merely competing with humans but may appear to surpass them.

“The jury seriously considered awarding the top prize to that piece but ultimately refrained because of the question: are they recognizing a person—or something else? From a copyright perspective, the boundary of protection is unclear. We assume that human-created works meet the creativity requirement,” Kaalep explained.

“When a work is created by or with a machine, defining the creative boundary becomes much more difficult. We rely heavily on authors’ honesty and their assessment of how much effort they contributed. This is crucial because without creative choices, a work cannot be protected by copyright. Works created by machines are not protected.”

Entering just a few keywords into Suno does not constitute a creative act. “There must be clear evidence of human decision-making. It cannot be a purely mechanical command. The boundary is neither legally defined nor socially agreed upon. I cannot say today whether writing ten iterative prompts constitutes creative choices,” Kaalep said.

“But it is fairly certain that entering just a few keywords or a single prompt does not result in a copyright-protected work,” he added.

Editor: Neit-Eerik Nestor
Source: “Pähklipureja”, interviews by Miina Pärn and Aurora Ruus

https://kultuur.err.ee/1610007712/ardo-ran-varres-ai-seab-teatri-ja-filmimuusikas-kahtluse-alla-helilooja-moiste