Dark fascination

Cellist and composer Hildur Guðnadóttir has forged a career spanning classical, film and electronics – but she's always been drawn to unsettling themes

- Claire Jackson

Hildur Guðnadóttir is scrolling through her phone. Whereas most people use the device to collect photographs and notes alongside contact numbers, the Icelandic composer records snippets of music. These are not found sounds like bird song or a grumbling engine, but the melodies and rhythms that fill her mind on a near-constant basis. Such industry is not to be wasted, and so Guðnadóttir preserves each moment as a voice memo. 'These snapshots are a musical diary,' she says, demonstrating how she sings into the microphone. 'My music is deeply connected to my voice; there's a feedback loop between vocals and cello.'

There is a sense of exorcism to this process. Once the idea has been preserved, Guðnadóttir can continue with her day – or night. Creative seeds rarely arrive at convenient times. Many of these voice notes were recorded on pavements as Guðnadóttir paused on her bike, singing into her phone among the Berlin traffic.

Some of the kernels have gone on to be featured in high-profile film and TV scores (more about them later), but many remained gathering proverbial dust. Now, the musings form the backbone for Where to From, Guðnadóttir's first solo album in 10 years. The cover depicts a child, eyes lowered behind an icy-white fringe. There's a luminous quality to her chalky skin. A passing glance suggests this could be an old photo of Guðnadóttir. But closer inspection reveals an unsettling stillness – these, and the images elsewhere in the booklet, are doll sculptures made by Gisèle Vienne, a friend of the composer.