automatic translation,
may not be accurate
may not be accurate
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What the Traverso Teaches About Breathing, Balance, and Tone
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with Bella Kublanova
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The Search for a Living Sound
When I think about the central theme of my life as a flutist, the answer comes immediately: sound.
Not simply a “good” sound, or a technically efficient sound, but a sound that feels alive, honest, free, and deeply personal. Looking back now, I realize that this search became the central artistic thread of my entire life as a musician. And yet, for many years, I approached this search in the way many musicians do: through effort, discipline, concentration, and control. Beautiful sound seemed to be something that had to be physically conquered - through more practice, more force, more precision, more work. This belief led me both toward important artistic experiences and toward a profound personal crisis. |
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Looking back now, I also understand that many years of intense practice meant many years of reinforcing unnecessary tension and inefficient physical patterns. Modern flute playing often demands enormous physical energy, and I constantly tried to solve musical problems through muscular effort and control.
Externally, everything appeared successful: important studies, difficult repertoire, competitions, advanced conservatory training. Internally, however, I increasingly felt disconnected from my own sound.
Eventually, the feeling became impossible to ignore.
I think many musicians know this moment very well, even if they rarely speak about it openly: you practise constantly, you do everything “correctly,” and still something essential feels absent.
At one point I even considered abandoning the profession entirely.
Externally, everything appeared successful: important studies, difficult repertoire, competitions, advanced conservatory training. Internally, however, I increasingly felt disconnected from my own sound.
Eventually, the feeling became impossible to ignore.
I think many musicians know this moment very well, even if they rarely speak about it openly: you practise constantly, you do everything “correctly,” and still something essential feels absent.
At one point I even considered abandoning the profession entirely.
The Unexpected Turning Point
I was actually very lucky with my teachers. My very first teacher in Vladivostok, Margarita Polonskaya, encouraged my love for performing from the very beginning, and even as a child I was constantly playing concerts and competitions.
Later I studied with the remarkable flutist Mikhail Matveevich Shujanov. Even today, in his eighties, he wakes up thinking about flute sound and goes to sleep thinking about flute sound. Every conversation with him eventually becomes a conversation about breathing, resonance, air direction, tension, phrasing, lips, and body movement.
During my studies in Saint Petersburg with Evgenij Sergeevich Matveev, who for many years played in the legendary Mravinsky orchestra of the Leningrad Philharmonic, I received the foundation of my musical thinking and interpretation. Much of my understanding of phrasing, musical architecture, emotional depth, and artistic responsibility was formed through his teaching. However, when it came to sound production, his answer was usually very simple: 'Practise more.'
Later, while still in Saint Petersburg, I also studied with Denis Lupachev, principal flutist of the Mariinsky Theatre. He gave me several important and precise insights into sound production that stayed with me for many years.
And so I practiced intensely for years. But gradually I realized that I was also reinforcing unnecessary tension and excessive physical effort. Despite successful studies, competitions, and important musical experiences, I became increasingly disconnected from my own sound. At some point this became a real crisis.
When I was already studying in Karlsruhe with Renate Greiss-Armin, I asked if I could begin taking traverso lessons with Heike Nicodemus.
At the time, I did not imagine that this decision would fundamentally change my understanding of sound, breathing, and flute playing itself. I simply felt that I needed another path.
What surprised me immediately was that the lessons almost never began with the instrument. Much of the work happened without the flute in the hands at all.
The lessons focused on breathing, body balance, movement, alignment, physical awareness, and the release of unnecessary tension. Sometimes the atmosphere resembled yoga, Tai Chi, breathing practice, or movement work more than a traditional conservatory flute lesson.
Elastic bands, ropes, imaginary archery movements, inhalation and exhalation exercises, awareness of weight and balance - these became central parts of the process.
And only at the very end of the lesson would I finally take the traverso into my hands and play a single note.
Sometimes only the D in the second octave. Sometimes an octave.
For a conservatory student already working on repertoire like Prokofiev Sonata and competition programs, this felt almost absurdly simple. Yet strangely, this one note slowly began to change my entire musical life.
Later I studied with the remarkable flutist Mikhail Matveevich Shujanov. Even today, in his eighties, he wakes up thinking about flute sound and goes to sleep thinking about flute sound. Every conversation with him eventually becomes a conversation about breathing, resonance, air direction, tension, phrasing, lips, and body movement.
During my studies in Saint Petersburg with Evgenij Sergeevich Matveev, who for many years played in the legendary Mravinsky orchestra of the Leningrad Philharmonic, I received the foundation of my musical thinking and interpretation. Much of my understanding of phrasing, musical architecture, emotional depth, and artistic responsibility was formed through his teaching. However, when it came to sound production, his answer was usually very simple: 'Practise more.'
Later, while still in Saint Petersburg, I also studied with Denis Lupachev, principal flutist of the Mariinsky Theatre. He gave me several important and precise insights into sound production that stayed with me for many years.
And so I practiced intensely for years. But gradually I realized that I was also reinforcing unnecessary tension and excessive physical effort. Despite successful studies, competitions, and important musical experiences, I became increasingly disconnected from my own sound. At some point this became a real crisis.
When I was already studying in Karlsruhe with Renate Greiss-Armin, I asked if I could begin taking traverso lessons with Heike Nicodemus.
At the time, I did not imagine that this decision would fundamentally change my understanding of sound, breathing, and flute playing itself. I simply felt that I needed another path.
What surprised me immediately was that the lessons almost never began with the instrument. Much of the work happened without the flute in the hands at all.
The lessons focused on breathing, body balance, movement, alignment, physical awareness, and the release of unnecessary tension. Sometimes the atmosphere resembled yoga, Tai Chi, breathing practice, or movement work more than a traditional conservatory flute lesson.
Elastic bands, ropes, imaginary archery movements, inhalation and exhalation exercises, awareness of weight and balance - these became central parts of the process.
And only at the very end of the lesson would I finally take the traverso into my hands and play a single note.
Sometimes only the D in the second octave. Sometimes an octave.
For a conservatory student already working on repertoire like Prokofiev Sonata and competition programs, this felt almost absurdly simple. Yet strangely, this one note slowly began to change my entire musical life.
Learning to Allow the Sound
During this same period, I temporarily stepped away from intensive repertoire work. I practiced very little. Instead, I swam daily and spent long periods observing animals in the Karlsruhe zoo - seals, penguins and meerkats.
This may sound unusual, but for me it became deeply important.
Watching animals move, I became fascinated by the complete absence of unnecessary effort. Their movement was perfectly organized. Nothing was excessive. Nothing was forced. Everything functioned through balance and natural coordination.
Slowly I began trying to transfer this same sensation into breathing and sound production.
Until then, I had always tried to make the sound happen.
For the first time, I began learning how to allow the sound to happen, and this distinction became transformative.
The traverso, with its immediate sensitivity to breath, tension, balance, and resonance, became an extraordinary teacher in this process. Unlike instruments that can sometimes compensate for physical excess, the traverso exposes imbalance immediately. It rewards organization and release far more than muscular force.
In this sense, the instrument itself began teaching me a different philosophy of sound.
This may sound unusual, but for me it became deeply important.
Watching animals move, I became fascinated by the complete absence of unnecessary effort. Their movement was perfectly organized. Nothing was excessive. Nothing was forced. Everything functioned through balance and natural coordination.
Slowly I began trying to transfer this same sensation into breathing and sound production.
Until then, I had always tried to make the sound happen.
For the first time, I began learning how to allow the sound to happen, and this distinction became transformative.
The traverso, with its immediate sensitivity to breath, tension, balance, and resonance, became an extraordinary teacher in this process. Unlike instruments that can sometimes compensate for physical excess, the traverso exposes imbalance immediately. It rewards organization and release far more than muscular force.
In this sense, the instrument itself began teaching me a different philosophy of sound.
The Moment Everything Changed
After several months, I eventually returned to my modern flute studies and repertoire. I remember very clearly the moment I took the modern flute into my hands again and tried to transfer this new bodily sensation into the instrument.
And suddenly, the sound I had been searching for my entire life appeared.
But what shocked me most was not the sound itself. It was the feeling behind it.
For years I had believed beautiful sound required enormous force and physical control. Now the sound seemed to emerge from something entirely different: breathing, balance, calmness, resonance, body organization, and inner release. It felt effortless. Almost unreal.
I remain deeply grateful to Renate Greiss-Armin for recognizing the importance of this transformation. Since the search for sound has always been central to her own teaching, she immediately understood what Heike Nicodemus had opened for me and enthusiastically supported the idea of dedicating an entire semester purely to sound work. Rather than immediately returning to technical pressure and large repertoire demands, she allowed me to spend an entire semester stabilizing this new sensation through Debussy’s Syrinx.
For one whole semester, two pages of music became enough.
And looking back now, I consider this one of the most important periods of my life as a musician.
Later, working with Karl Kaiser deepened this process even further. What touched me most in his teaching was the enormous respect for the individuality of each student. He created a rare atmosphere of trust and artistic freedom, where sound was connected not only to style and historical knowledge, but also to personality, imagination, and inner truth. In many ways, this became work not only with flute sound, but with the sound of the soul.
And suddenly, the sound I had been searching for my entire life appeared.
But what shocked me most was not the sound itself. It was the feeling behind it.
For years I had believed beautiful sound required enormous force and physical control. Now the sound seemed to emerge from something entirely different: breathing, balance, calmness, resonance, body organization, and inner release. It felt effortless. Almost unreal.
I remain deeply grateful to Renate Greiss-Armin for recognizing the importance of this transformation. Since the search for sound has always been central to her own teaching, she immediately understood what Heike Nicodemus had opened for me and enthusiastically supported the idea of dedicating an entire semester purely to sound work. Rather than immediately returning to technical pressure and large repertoire demands, she allowed me to spend an entire semester stabilizing this new sensation through Debussy’s Syrinx.
For one whole semester, two pages of music became enough.
And looking back now, I consider this one of the most important periods of my life as a musician.
Later, working with Karl Kaiser deepened this process even further. What touched me most in his teaching was the enormous respect for the individuality of each student. He created a rare atmosphere of trust and artistic freedom, where sound was connected not only to style and historical knowledge, but also to personality, imagination, and inner truth. In many ways, this became work not only with flute sound, but with the sound of the soul.
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Sound Begins Before the Instrument
One of the most striking ideas emerging from my experience is the realization that sound production begins long before the flute itself.
Today I often tell students that perhaps ninety percent of sound happens before we even touch the instrument. Sound begins in:
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This idea became symbolized for me by a sculpture in the Karlsruhe zoo: Der Flötenspieler by Christian Elsässer.
Many years ago, the flute itself was stolen from the sculpture. What remains is a flute player sitting in a beautifully relaxed position, playing an invisible instrument.
I immediately felt a deep connection to this image. To understand how to play the flute, sometimes we first need to learn how to play without the flute.
Many years ago, the flute itself was stolen from the sculpture. What remains is a flute player sitting in a beautifully relaxed position, playing an invisible instrument.
I immediately felt a deep connection to this image. To understand how to play the flute, sometimes we first need to learn how to play without the flute.
Breathing as Organized Energy
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Another very important stage of my journey came through breathing work in Vienna during masterclasses with Jean Michel Tanguy and daily breathing sessions led by the Japanese vocal professor Akihiko Mori.
This work approached breathing from a deeply physical perspective: back muscles, intercostal muscles, abdominal support, diaphragm coordination, and especially the balance between activity and release. One particular exercise remained unforgettable for me. In photographs from the course, it looks as if I am pressing my fist into Akihiko Mori’s stomach. In reality, however, the exercise worked in the opposite direction: the person breathing had to organize the entire body against this resistance using only coordinated breath support and abdominal organization. |
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The goal was never brute force. It was organized energy.
At the time, I understood these ideas mostly intellectually. Only later, after my traverso work with Heike Nicodemus, did my body finally understand them physically. And together, these experiences became the real key for me.
At the time, I understood these ideas mostly intellectually. Only later, after my traverso work with Heike Nicodemus, did my body finally understand them physically. And together, these experiences became the real key for me.
A Different Way to Begin Practice
Perhaps the most practical consequence of this whole journey is the way I now think about the beginning of practice itself.
Instead of immediately starting with scales, technical exercises, or repertoire, I first try to ask very simple questions:
For me, swimming and observing nature became essential ways of restoring balance. For someone else it may be walking, yoga, stretching, breathing work, silence, or simply slowing down.
The specific activity matters less than the internal result: a return to physical harmony and calmness.
Once the body truly remembers this state of “I feel good,” it becomes possible to recall it surprisingly quickly through memory and imagination alone. And when this internal state returns, the sound often changes immediately and naturally.
Instead of immediately starting with scales, technical exercises, or repertoire, I first try to ask very simple questions:
- How do I feel today?
- Am I balanced?
- Is there unnecessary tension?
- Is my breathing calm?
- Does my body feel organized and available?
For me, swimming and observing nature became essential ways of restoring balance. For someone else it may be walking, yoga, stretching, breathing work, silence, or simply slowing down.
The specific activity matters less than the internal result: a return to physical harmony and calmness.
Once the body truly remembers this state of “I feel good,” it becomes possible to recall it surprisingly quickly through memory and imagination alone. And when this internal state returns, the sound often changes immediately and naturally.
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The Traverso’s Lesson
I often describe the traverso as an instrument of unusual honesty.
It immediately reveals excess tension, imbalance, and force. It cannot easily be dominated physically. Instead, it constantly invites the player toward listening, balance, release, and natural resonance. For this reason, traverso playing can profoundly transform not only flute technique, but the entire philosophy of sound production itself. I gradually discovered that the deepest control often comes not through increased force, but through deep release. Sometimes the best practice is actually to put the instrument down entirely:
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Who is this Practice Pill for?
This Practice Pill is suitable for:
Skills Developed
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Try This in Your Own Practice
Seven Practical Steps for Breathing, Balance, and Tone
Before touching the flute:
- walk,
- stretch,
- breathe deeply,
- stand quietly,
- release unnecessary tension.
First bring the body into balance.
Sound begins before the instrument.
Remember how swimmers, singers, or animals breathe and move.
Nothing is excessive. Nothing is forced.
Try bringing the same balance and economy into your phrasing and breathing.
Bring to mind a moment when you felt completely well, safe, and happy. A time when there were no worries or inner tension — only ease.
Let this memory become vivid again. See it, hear it, and most importantly, feel it in your body.
Notice how your breathing changes, how your posture and inner rhythm naturally soften and reorganize.
Then gently return, carrying this sense of ease into your sound.
Play a single D for several minutes. Not just a long D — but a beautiful D. Your own D.
Observe:
- breathing,
- shoulders,
- jaw,
- balance,
- resonance,
- unnecessary effort.
Do not manufacture the sound. Allow it to appear.
Listen before you play. Your sound already exists: you simply have to hear it, feel it in your body, and then let it sound.
Choose a very simple phrase.
Gradually reduce physical force while maintaining resonance and projection.
Often the sound becomes freer with less effort.
When the sound feels open and natural, stop for a moment and memorize the physical sensation.
Learn to recall this inner state before practising.
If practice becomes tense or physically forced, stop for a moment.
Breathe. Move. Reset your body. Drink a cup of tea, or even go for a walk.
Then begin again calmly. First, you feel good. Then you sound good. And in the end, you can share your sound with your audience and make your audience feel good.
That is why we make music.
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Bella Kublanova is a flutist, traverso player, conductor, researcher, and curator based in Karlsruhe, Germany. Born in Vladivostok in the Russian Far East, her life and artistic path reflect a continuous process of cultural transfer across countries, traditions, centuries, and artistic languages.
Alongside her work as a soloist and chamber musician, she is also active in choral and orchestral conducting and has been a Bulgheroni Artist since 2014. Performing on both modern and historical flutes, her artistic work explores the relationship between sound, breath, body awareness, historical performance practice, and musical communication. As an ambassador of Karlsruhe’s musical heritage, she is deeply engaged in the rediscovery of the 18th-century Karlsruhe Court flute repertoire and develops interdisciplinary projects connecting historical and contemporary music. Her current research focuses on transcultural and transhistorical processes of musical exchange and cultural transfer. Her artistic approach is shaped by a lifelong search for a sound that feels alive, free, and deeply human. “Karlsruhe even has several sculptures dedicated to flute players. I always smile when I think about this. I warmly invite everyone to come here — to walk through the city, to visit the zoo, to discover these hidden musical treasures, to breathe this special air, and to make music together. Come as my guests: we can walk together through Karlsruhe, visit the flute player statue, and share this beautiful sound.” |
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