Pianist Marie François brings to life on Saturday February 21st and Sunday 22nd The Carnival of the Animals by Camille Saint-Saëns (1835-1921) at Schouwburg De Kern in Wilrijk (","). Together with a select group of world-class musicians and actor Koen De Bouw as narrator, she invites young and old on an imaginative journey through a world of animals and music. On the occasion of this concert, we spoke with her about how music comes to life in live performances, about listening, interpretation and the encounter between performer and audience.https://www.schouwburgdekern.be/voorstellingen/marie-francois-presenteert-t7zmThe room breathes along

Live music doesn't happen in a vacuum. "For me, a concert starts with authentic music-making, the experience in the space: the vibrations, the energy, the atmosphere, the story, the craft, the exchange between musician, music, instrument and audience. That's what makes every moment unique," says Marie François. At the same time, she notes how different this is from what we hear nowadays through social media or streaming. "Everything there is so processed and reworked that it often stands far removed from what happens live. Yet most people have developed a kind of ear for perfection through it—an ideal that isn't realistic. That tension is part of live music and makes communication both vulnerable and alive."

During a concert, François experiences that communication in moments of shared concentration: when the energy in the room visibly shifts and a subtle attunement emerges between her, the music, the instrument and the audience. "That happens on an almost pre-verbal level," she explains, "where it's less about explanation or interpretation and more about resonance—sound, vibrations, breathing and attention."

She refers to Mihály Csikszentmihályi's

Flow : the moment when focus, action and perception converge. Sometimes it's a collective experience, sometimes an intimate dialogue between musician, instrument and music. "A room full of strangers, with diverse backgrounds, listening together in silence, without distraction—that remains something exceptional and almost magical. Where do you find places like that today? It's an almost rare experience in which performer and audience achieve a shared flow."Body and sound in dialogue

Body and Sound in Dialogue

That shared flow is not only mental but also physical. For her, music emerges in the interplay of ear, breath, weight, and touch. The body acts as a silent mediator between score and sound, between intention and reality. "My hands, ears, and breath form one whole. It's a conversation with the instrument that constantly responds," she says. In this way, listening becomes not only a mental exercise but also a physical practice that deepens both the playing and the interaction with the audience.

Communication is further strengthened through dialogue with the audience. Not as an afterthought, but as an integral part of her musicianship. By telling something about the works, she invites listeners into her inner world and that of the composer. "By articulating what occupies my mind, I stay sharp, keep thinking, and prevent myself from stagnating," says François. "It also allows me to take risks without pleasing, and shows who I am behind the piano: curious, enthusiastic, and full of love for this repertoire."

Repertoire as narrative

Her repertoire choices stem from the same principle. A program is never merely an aesthetic listing but a dramaturgical whole. François compares it to a carefully curated menu: not only the quality of each individual dish matters, but especially the coherence, dramatic arcs, and breathing room. "I ask myself questions like: how do the pieces relate in form and harmony, and how does one work guide the ear toward the next? The palette is never fixed; it moves with who I am in that moment." Because the piano repertoire is so rich, she feels responsible for making choices that tell a story—about a period, an idea, an inner journey.

Freedom, fidelity, and interpretation

For François, there is no 'definitive' interpretation. Each performance is temporary, bound to a moment, a hall, an audience, and to who she is as a musician at that particular time. "It's a constant weighing: fidelity to the score, but also fidelity to the moment and who I am as a performer. When freedom becomes detached from necessity, it feels meaningless. When fidelity becomes dogma, it strangles the music." "I always try to find a balance: freedom must never be gratuitous, and fidelity must never feel suffocating."

Context as inspiration, freedom as guide

This vision was recently reinforced by her work around Frédéric Chopin (1810-1849). A period in Warsaw brought her literally and figuratively closer to his world. She visited the Chopin Institute, studied facsimiles, saw his last piano, and worked with pedagogue Ewa Pobłocka. "I absorbed as many impressions and stories as possible, like a sponge, and let them work through musically as inspiration. It also motivated me to study further, which can sometimes be a solitary pursuit," she explains. "At the same time, as a performer you must detach yourself from nostalgia or excessive glorification; historical knowledge feeds imagination, but shouldn't pin down your playing."

Chopin's music is often associated with melancholy and introspection, but that emotional charge imposes itself naturally to François as soon as you truly listen to voice-leading and harmony. What she consciously avoids is effect-seeking and mere virtuosity. "Chopin's strength lies less in the extroverted than in the narrative and vocal character of his music. It's about nuance, intimacy, and a freedom that is never arbitrary but always in service of the music. By not forcing spectacle, there remains room for belcanto, poetry, and intimacy." "The Nocturnes are often labeled as 'intimate salon music,' but I don't see that as a limitation; it's precisely a key to their power."

Lightness and depth in chamber music

The same attitude characterizes her projects outside the traditional recital. In {{NOTRANSLATE_1}} Saint-Saëns's {{NOTRANSLATE_1}}, presented in a theatrical context, François sees no contradiction between amusement and depth. "Collaborating with top musicians from different families means constantly listening, responding, and breathing. The piano can be motor, color, or support—and many decisions emerge spontaneously. The work is chamber music in its purest sense: one voice in a colorful whole, not hierarchically conducted." The balance between amusement and depth lies in taking that lightness seriously: by playing precisely, transparently, and without seeking effect, the music remains both accessible and rich. "The role of the piano constantly shifts: sometimes motor, sometimes color, sometimes support. The ensemble requires trust and attention to timing and sound, and many decisions emerge in the moment." Breathing, vulnerability, letting go
François speaks with nuance about accessibility. She resists the idea that classical music is only for the initiated. "The threshold rarely lies with the music itself. I don't simplify the music; I simplify the threshold. By providing context, by sharing why a work moves me, and by showing where you're allowed to breathe and where not, listening deepens rather than flattens. The starting point is always respect: for the music and for the audience."

Vulnerability also plays a role in her view of perfection. The greatest pressure comes from herself. Doubt and searching are part of taking musicianship seriously. "Horowitz once said: 'When I practice, I practice for perfection. When I perform, I let it go.' Perfection as preparation is essential; on stage I let it go. That tension between preparation and letting go is the core of musicianship." "The fear of falling silent or repeating myself is daily present, but I see it as part of the process."

In a world of acceleration and polarization, François sees classical music as more than aesthetics. A concert demands sustained attention and offers a different experience of time. "The moment after the final note, before the applause begins, is also part of the music for me. It's a subtle transition, a breathing space, a collective consciousness." "I hope that after a concert, listeners take with them something of their own breath, attention, and capacity for nuance—not just the notes."

The question that has guided her for years is radically simple: is it worth continuing? For her, continuing doesn't mean keeping running but choosing more slowly, honestly, and selectively. "I've always asked that question, and my answer has remained the same, though I feel gentler with myself and stricter about everything that isn't essential. Continuing means choosing selectively, participating less in the noise, and centering projects that truly nourish the music."

New project: The Seasons

Marie François is currently working on an ambitious project called {{NOTRANSLATE_2}},{{NOTRANSLATE_2}}, in which the music of Peter Tchaikovsky (1840-1893), time, and imagination come together in a special way. Instead of a traditional, complete recital, this work unfolds month by month, allowing the audience to experience a rhythmic, cyclical journey. François explains how this structure influences her way of preparing, playing, and listening: "Because {{NOTRANSLATE_2}} unfolds step by step, I don't prepare toward one peak moment but toward a rhythm. Each month asks for a different concentration and color, and what I discover in month one resonates back again later. That cyclical quality makes it more intimate and less 'finished' than a traditional recital."

The project (

Marie François is currently working on an ambitious project called The Seasons, in which music by Peter Tchaikovsky (1840-1893), time, and imagination come together in a special way. Rather than a traditional, self-contained recital, this work unfolds month by month, allowing the audience to experience a rhythmic, cyclical journey. François explains how this structure influences her approach to preparation, performance, and listening: "Because The Seasons it unfolds step by step, I'm not preparing toward one peak moment, but toward a rhythm. Each month calls for a different focus and color, and what I discover in month one resonates back later. That cyclical quality makes it more intimate and less 'finished' than a traditional recital."

The project (https://www.eprclassic.eu/de-seizoenen) seamlessly aligns with her conviction to selectively choose works that truly nourish the music. On the choice for The Seasons she says: "It felt like a project that truly nourishes the music, because it's not about 'more,' but about going deeper. It connects repertoire with meaning, with time, with other voices — and with the audience. I felt: this is exactly what I want to build right now. And that's really a gut feeling. Once I truly feel something, I go for it."

Freedom Between the Notes

"Every concert is a fresh start," she says. "The notes fade away, but the breath, the attention, and the presence linger on. That's the most beautiful gift: a shared space where everyone feels, listens, and breathes with the music together."

In those moments, classical music becomes an exercise in vulnerability and freedom. Not as an escape, but as a place to return to nuance, to breath, to the tension between preparation and letting go. In the silence after the final note lies the promise of beginning again and again — a shared current, fragile and precious, that never ceases to exist. "Freedom and commitment, vulnerability, time, silence, and sharing my process: those are the core values I want to pass on."

Music never begins or ends with the notes themselves. For François, it's a current that continually unfolds, a space where performer and audience meet, where sound transforms into experience and silence into meaning.