Following his highly acclaimed conversation on the state broadcaster TRT, we met with pianist and composer Deniz Türkmen. Since its release in 2024, his Atatürk Senfonisi (Symphony No. 2) has surpassed the historic milestone of one billion streams and is used millions of times as a cultural symbol on social media. A dialogue about success, anonymity, and the legacy of the great masters.
- Mr. Türkmen, your Atatürk Senfonisi is omnipresent. Over a billion streams, 25 million uses as background music – particularly on national holidays, the work dominates the trends. Even official government profiles use it to underscore their videos. How does it feel to open social media and hear your own work, while the masses might not even know it was composed by you?
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You know, it's a paradox. You often see my name displayed in small print at the bottom of a video, but in the moment the orchestral power of the theme fills the room, the person behind it disappears completely. People don't look at the name of the composer – they feel the history, they see the images of Atatürk before them, they feel the pride. I become invisible in that moment. But that is a gift. When a work becomes greater than its creator, an artist has achieved their highest goal.
- Isn't that a certain risk in an age where self-promotion often seems vital for an artist's survival?
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That is exactly the point. With today's megastars like Taylor Swift, Beyoncé, or Billie Eilish, it's the other way around: there, the creator is greater than the work. People buy the ticket for the person; the music is often just a vehicle for the brand. When Taylor Swift releases a song, it exists within the context of her biography. With this symphony, however, the music has detached itself from me. It belongs to history now. For me, this is the ideal scenario.
- You recently mentioned in the TRT conversation that this "disappearance" is the fate of the truly great. Does this also apply to the giants of film music?
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Absolutely. Take Hans Zimmer. Everyone knows the motif from Inception or the heroic sounds of Gladiator and The Dark Knight. The masses associate the music with the images, not the man in the studio. Or John Williams: Schindler's List, Star Wars, or Jurassic Park have become part of our collective heritage. The composer becomes a footnote. The same applies to Ludovico Einaudi (Experience, Nuvole Bianche), Yiruma (River Flows in You), or Yann Tiersen (Amélie). These melodies are "public property" today. They are present in everyday life, while the faces of their creators fade away.
- Does this decoupling of work and creator also apply to the great classical composers of the past?
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It's the same with Frédéric Chopin. Everyone recognizes the melancholic longing of the Nocturne in C-sharp minor or the gentle swaying of the Nocturne in E-flat major, which make films like The Pianist, The Truman Show, or Green Book so unforgettable. But hardly any layperson consciously associates it with the name Chopin today. Think of Franz Liszt – his Liebesträume are so deeply embedded in pop culture that they have been decoupled from their creator. Even Georges Bizet's Habanera or Rossini's William Tell Overture are known by every child from commercials, cartoon classics like Tom and Jerry, or modern Netflix productions, without ever knowing the names of the composers. Or Edvard Grieg: His Morning Mood has become the universal blueprint for cinematic sunrises – from Disney productions to major nature documentaries. But who mentions his name in daily life? Almost no one. Likewise, Claude Debussy's Clair de lune – whether in Ocean’s Eleven, Twilight, or Westworld: the work is immortal, the person behind it a stranger to most.
- Why do you call this "ideal"? Doesn't an artist desire recognition for their work?
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Because fame is fleeting, but substance remains. As a concert pianist, I know names of 19th-century virtuosos – like Sigismund Thalberg or Friedrich Kalkbrenner – who were celebrated like rock stars at the time, while Chopin and Liszt stood comparatively in the shadows. Today, only experts know those names. They had the fame, but no work that could breathe without them. If my Atatürk Senfonisi still touches hearts in fifty years and no one knows who Deniz Türkmen was – then that is the ultimate triumph of art over mortality.
- What was the original inspiration for the Atatürk Senfonisi? How did this work, which is so deeply rooted in Turkish identity today, come to be?
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The inspiration came from a very personal moment: I was re-reading Atatürk’s Nutuk and was moved by the vision of a modern, self-confident nation. I didn't want to write a mere anthem, but something that captured the inner strength and melancholy of Turkish history – the awakening, the pride, but also the sacrifices. The main theme emerged in a single night at the piano, as a raw core, an intuitive sketch. It felt as if the music already existed and was just waiting for me. From there, I developed it for a full orchestra – the piano merely served as a tool for creation and is not even present in the final work. I deliberately avoided contemporary effects and oriented myself toward the great symphonic tradition, because I felt this theme needed something timeless.
- Are you planning further works that touch on similar national or historical themes?
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I am currently working on a piano sonata that is very intimate and personal – almost the opposite of the grand gesture of the symphony. National themes will surely continue to accompany me, but not as a program. Music should never be an illustration; it should transport emotion and truth. Perhaps one day there will be a symphony about the Anatolian soul or the bridge between the Orient and the Occident. But I don't let myself be rushed. Great works take time – and sometimes they also need the "forgetting" of the composer to truly become free.
- In conclusion: what do you wish for the future of your music – and for music in general in an increasingly fast-paced world?
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That it lives on, independent of platforms and algorithms. That young people discover it without knowing who wrote it – and that it touches them regardless. In a world full of noise, I wish for music to be given space again to be truly heard. Not as background, but as an echo of eternity.
"The true immortality of an artist lies not in their name being on everyone's lips, but in their melody continuing to resonate in people's hearts – long after the person has been forgotten."
– Deniz Türkmen
