ANA APRIL
Q What inspired you to choose such a raw and honest approach when writing the lyrics for Imprints?
A The lyrics were written at a time when several situations coincided and led me to reflect on the feeling of losing a loved one — that intense emotion that’s simply part of sharing a life with others.
Q Can you talk about the first image in the song — the cat on the bed and the pillow — how did that scene come to you?
A If you have a cat, you probably know they love to sit on freshly made beds or clean laundry. Mine does it all the time. And most of the time, I only notice it afterward because her hairs are on the pillow and her imprint is still visible. I found that to be a fitting metaphor for loss.
Q There’s a quiet pain throughout the lyrics. Did writing the song help you process any personal experiences?
A Your expression “quiet pain” is interesting. Is pain always quiet? What would the lyrics look like if I had written about loud pain? The song also explores a kind of pain I would describe as lonely. To bring that feeling into the lyrics and the music, and to shape it into a narrative, I connected deeply with my own emotions and with those of people close to me. It was a balancing act to not get lost in it. My brother-in-law had just passed away, and at the same time, I was dealing with heartbreak. As a rather introverted person, I tend to express my experiences and pain very reservedly on the outside. So yes, the song processes a piece of biography. It’s always healing to reflect on your feelings and find a way to deal with them.
Q How did the idea of surrender influence the way you shaped the lyrics?
A That mindset allowed my thoughts to flow freely without needing to “construct” a lyric. I surrendered to the chord progression and played it for hours, trying to completely shut off my thinking. The text emerged primarily intuitively — images that surfaced while playing were later translated into language.
Q You use a lot of soft and natural imagery like rain and the willow tree — do you usually write with nature in mind?
A I’d even say nature plays a role in my life in general. I like to feel the earth under my feet. And of course, my daily life flows into my lyrics. Nature offers so many analogies and metaphors for our own lives — after all, we’re woven into nature too, even though we sometimes tend to see ourselves as separate from it. Expressing emotions through images from nature is easy for many people to relate to. A word like “rain” or “willow tree” carries a rich layer of meaning and associations that aren’t explicitly named but resonate — maybe even within a kind of collective consciousness.
Q When you ask “do you feel the pain I feel,” it’s so vulnerable. Were you afraid to share that kind of openness?
A No, I’m not afraid to be authentic in my songs. If I were to hide the raw, real feelings in my music, what would that mean for the song? What purpose would it serve? Art should exist precisely to open channels for others to connect with their own thoughts and emotions. If art starts censoring itself or becomes afraid to be authentic or admit mistakes — who would take on that work instead?
Q You mentioned surrender in your artist statement. How do the lyrics reflect that surrender emotionally?
A I see all of my artistic work as a form of surrender to life. I’m interested in what happens between us as human beings, how we treat one another, what we trigger in each other. One philosopher who plays a role in my work is Martin Buber and his text I and Thou. Even though it’s quite old, I find powerful reflections in it — ones I seem to have internalized somehow. I don’t want to stand in front of the things I write about as a mere observer, but as someone who truly enters into relationship. In this song, for example, I’m not trying to write about pain as if it were an object, but from within the pain. I write in relation to a real “you” — a person, a memory, a feeling. I understand my lyrics as a kind of encounter — something that happens between me and the words, and between the lyrics and the listener. I don’t approach the topic in a distant or analytical way, but directly, vulnerably, and with presence. My hope would be that listeners could enter into this kind of relationship too.
Q The idea of arriving and leaving the world unarmed is powerful — do you see the song as being about more than just one relationship?
A That idea is addressed in the Song Unarmed and Naked. The song plays with the notion that sexual surrender and death seem to be strangely entangled. I haven’t fully understood it myself yet. Somehow, love/sexuality and death/birth are connected, or maybe even bring each other into being. These elemental feelings also play a role in Imprints, of course. The song is wrapped in the form of a love song, but the dominant emotional layer for me was the death of my brother-in-law — or rather, my empathy for my sister.
Q There’s a sense of emotional residue in the lyrics, like something left behind. Was that something you wanted to explore intentionally?
A Yes, that was intentional. Sometimes the unspoken or unresolved carries more emotional weight than the actual event. Especially when something ends abruptly and is met with a lot of confusion. I didn’t want the song to offer closure. It was supposed to feel more like walking through a room where someone had just been — a quiet presence, fading traces you might desperately try to hold onto. I’m interested in how we deal with that, what strategies we develop to preserve moments as memories or to forget them. And when we do hold onto memories, how they change over time — and still hold truth and meaning for our identity.
Q How do you know when a song like this is finished, when it still carries so much raw emotion?
A It’s perhaps comparable to a painter deciding when a painting is finished. There’s that moment when the last brushstroke is made — and the next one would be too much. That moment between the final and the next brushstroke is fascinating. How can we even know whether a work is finished or unfinished? Fortunately, things are allowed to evolve over time. When I release a song, it’s always the best I could create at that point, with my means and my current self. Maybe in ten years, the song will look completely different. I think we should grant songs — just like people — the freedom to grow.
Q Did you write the lyrics all at once, or did they come together slowly over time?
A The images usually come all at once for the entire song. The rest of the process takes longer. Finding the right words is much harder for me than seeing the images.
Q The window tapping moment is so specific and delicate. How do you decide which small details to include in your writing?
A I try to experience a situation with all my senses — visual, auditory, and olfactory. So if I imagine a willow tree outside, with its long branches swaying in the wind and rain, I hear rustling, rain tapping against the window, branches creaking. I smell the rain on asphalt. I try to immerse myself completely and then decide which details best match the feeling I want to express.
Q Was it hard to stay away from more dramatic language or metaphors and trust the quietness instead?
A That’s a very relevant question — one I also know from theater: Can you represent emptiness with emptiness? In the case of Imprint, it’s a lonely kind of emptiness — or rather, a loss that causes emptiness. I think we can better grasp how empty something feels when we understand how full it once was. I have to be able to express how heavy the loneliness feels, to show how much the person had carried for me before they were gone — or vice versa.
But perhaps a bit more courage for silence in the musical arrangement would have made that impression even stronger?
Q Do you think writing this song changed how you understand vulnerability in your own life?
A I think I’ve learned how to fully surrender to a feeling, with empathy and without reservation — without fear of losing myself in it. And maybe through working through these emotions, I’ve lost some of my hesitation to address them directly with others.
Q What role does memory play in your songwriting process, especially in songs like this one?
A I see memory as part of our identity, not as truth. It’s always subjective and changeable. Memories are a part of my experiential world. Some people have similar experiences and feel inspired by my artistic expression. Others, with different experiences, might not connect with it at all. For me, memories are a reservoir I can draw from when I work artistically. In my creative process, I try to pull past, present, and future into a single point — as intuitively as possible.
Q Has anyone ever told you their own interpretation of the lyrics that surprised you or made you see them differently?
A Unfortunately, no. I don’t think people usually like to share their interpretations with the author — unless it’s in a dedicated setting. It requires a certain vulnerability on both sides, and there’s often a fear of saying something wrong or unintentionally hurting the other person. That can be a big barrier. I do have colleagues in my field with whom I exchange ideas, both lyrically and musically. These are trusted people who are used to being open and honest with me. That kind of feedback is incredibly valuable — it helps me grow personally and shift my perspective.
Q Would you say Imprints is more of a letter, a confession, or a reflection?
A Haha… I’d actually say all three: a letter, a confession, and a reflection. Probably for every song.
Q How do you hope listeners feel after sitting with the lyrics of this song?
A I would love it if a word or two lingered in someone’s mind and led to self-reflection. If the emotions and feelings carried through, and maybe sparked discussion or personal exploration. Lyrics can’t cover every aspect of emotion — they have to focus on one or two to stay meaningful. My biggest hope would be that emotions experienced as negative could eventually spark hope — and, in hindsight, become a deep personal resource.
