Nikolay Madoyan: ‘The Violin Has Become an Extension of Me’

I believe it is all combined, each adding to the other: visual, muscle memory, and musical memory. Together, they form a solid foundation, giving your memory many pillars to lean on. I always build on the architectural structure of the piece which then flows into emotions by binding both into my inner stream, my conscious and subconscious absorption of music: visual, physical, and mental—which provides 100% memory coverage.

People often speak of prodigious talent. But in your experience, what role do grit, discipline, and obsession play in mastering the violin compared to innate genius?

Talent can be the ignition, but effort and obsession are the burning flame. Genius without sweat is just potential and genius without inner fire is just talent.

I believe all of these play a very important role—hard work and persistence are essential. And you have to be obsessed with the violin as it will fuel the passion needed to overcome challenges. It is probably the most difficult instrument, and each of these factors plays a crucial and intertwined role on the path to excellence and becoming a true mastermind.

When you interpret a work — and if you think of emotion as a fifth element alongside earth, water, air, and fire — which one would you be?

I associate myself with the element of water. I believe I was born under this element, according to some ancient calendars. Water is considered the softest element, but when it confronts harder matter, it is unbeatable and always finds ways to move forward. That has always been my path as well. In performance, I often feel that my interpretation moves like water—fluid, flexible, and deeply emotional, yet with an inner strength that can break through any barrier. Water adapts, it flows, but it also shapes everything in its path. I strive for that same quality in my playing: to be gentle and sensitive when needed, but also unstoppable and commanding when the music demands it. When you understand your own energy, it becomes powerful and productive — almost unstoppable in its force.

What happens during your most private, invisible moments of practice—the moments no one sees?

In those long hours when no one is watching, I often sing along while practicing, which helps me connect even more deeply with the music. By layering my voice over the sound of the violin, I become a co-creator of the piece in a different kind of intimate, ethereal space.

Has there ever been a moment on stage when you had to quickly make a decision to save the situation due to an unexpected circumstance?

I remember a moment on stage when I was performing the Sibelius Violin Concerto in the Netherlands. One of my strings—the most vulnerable one and the biggest fear of any violinist—snapped during the performance. I quickly gathered myself and turned to the first violinist to lend his violin so I could continue playing without a pause. I’ve encountered similar situations before, and in those moments, staying calm and adapting quickly is essential.

If the violin could speak, what truth would it reveal about you that words cannot?

It would reveal that I am a person of contrasts—soft and gentle, yet relentless and demanding in my pursuit of excellence. Through the violin’s voice, which surpasses human voice, a violinist can express emotions that words cannot capture. While words can often ground us, the violin in masterful hands lifts us skyward, merging with the very vibrations of the world around us. It will speak of my deep connection to music—not just as sound, but as a language of love and utmost perfect form of communication.

What does a non-musical day in your life look like?

I spend a great deal of time at the gym and in the pool, making sure to stay in top shape. When summer rolls around, you’ll find me on the tennis court, enjoying friendly matches with my buddies. Tennis has always come naturally to me — it’s a talent I’ve had since childhood, and it’s something I continue to enjoy and improve on every season.  I’m also passionate about cycling, always eager to discover new trails around my neighborhood and take in the scenery.

What nourishes your soul outside of music?

Love.

Have you ever had a dream or vision that changed the way you played a piece?

Yes, in a way — but it wasn’t exactly a dream. When I was about eight years old, I had this surreal experience that happened to me only once and has stayed with me ever since. I was walking on a trail in a big open field when I was on vacation in Martuni. At one point, I saw some bushes and decided to go behind them. The moment I stepped through, I suddenly found myself in what felt like quantum parallel reality in physics — a neighborhood with buildings and people going about their lives. I remember feeling completely disoriented because I had just been on a field seconds before. I walked around in a daze, not really understanding what had happened. Eventually, I retraced my steps and ran back. In several minutes, curious, I went back with my brother and went through the same bushes — but the neighborhood was gone! It was just a field again. That experience, though mysterious and inexplicable, stuck with me and I think it began to influence how I play music, especially in intimate or intense moments. I try to channel that strange feeling of crossing into another dimension, and then leading the listener back through it.

Has your violin ever betrayed you? And have you ever betrayed it?

The violin is the most capricious instrument — but if you give yourself to it completely, with patience and love, there comes a point where you don’t just play it — you possess it. Or rather, you and the violin become one. The moment your attention wavers, even slightly, it senses it. And when it does, it takes its revenge. It’s not just an instrument; it’s a living partner, fiercely sensitive to your emotional and physical state.

It’s also deeply affected by the world around it — heat, humidity, the tiniest shift in air. You constantly have to adjust to it, listen to it, almost like reading the mood of someone you love. Over time, you develop the intuition to anticipate its moods. You learn how far you can push it, and how to coax it back when it’s resisting you.

But yes, I have betrayed it. There was a time when I was going through a difficult relationship, and my focus and my emotional energy was less on violin. The violin, of course, felt it — it became unpredictable, as if reflecting my own inner turmoil. Because the violin doesn’t just echo your sound, it echoes your soul.

If your violin had a memory, what moments do you think it would remember most vividly?

Why “if”? The violin does have a memory. I’m playing an instrument that was crafted centuries ago, and like many violins of its kind, it carries the soul of those who came before me. These instruments often bear the names of the great violinists who once played them.

I spoke earlier about my admiration for Heifetz’s recording of Sarasate’s music — a performance made all the more haunting by the fact that he was playing on Sarasate’s own violin. The history is embedded in the very wood of the instrument.

When touched by the fingers of a true virtuoso, a violin is transformed. It becomes an extension of something larger than oneself, where the violinist draws on the echoes of the past while contributing to its living memory.

What do you think people misunderstand most about being a violinist?

Many probably don’t realize the immense effort required to master the violin, or the level to which that effort must rise. It’s one of the most difficult instruments, and the illusion of ease on stage can be deceiving. When a musician performs a complex piece with apparent effortlessness, it’s easy to overlook the years of relentless dedication, discipline, and sacrifice behind that moment.

Audiences see grace and beauty, but not the titanic work it took to make something so challenging appear so natural. Also, regardless of how we feel physically or emotionally— whether we are on stage or in the recording studio — we must be ready, and we must play flawlessly to deliver the very best of ourselves and our art.

After playing for over 33 hours nonstop — an achievement recognized by Guinness World Records as “Officially Amazing”—did your relationship with music change?

Absolutely. That experience was transformative. What many people don’t realize is that music influences us differently depending on the time of day. Our bodies are incredibly intelligent, and our internal systems respond to sound in unique ways throughout the day and night—affecting everything from mood to our internal rhythms.

There’s compelling scientific research on this, and my father, who was deeply involved in neuroscience, made notable discoveries about how music interacts with the brain and body. During that 33-hour performance, I could genuinely sense those fluctuations—the shifting energies, the altered emotional resonance of the music as the hours passed.

I was testing the boundaries of my own being — mentally, physically and emotionally. And through that, I came to a powerful realization: human potential is far greater than we often imagine. When you connect deeply to something and truly believe in it, limits begin to dissolve.

That journey also gave me a rare kind of technical liberation—one that now enables me to concentrate entirely on the artistic core, on the essence of the music itself. It’s a gift that experience left me with—one I bring into every performance.

When you walk on stage — especially for monumental programs like Paganini’s 24 Caprices — do you engage in any mental or physical rituals before touching the violin?

I don’t like to rehearse intensively right before a concert. Instead, I prefer to focus inward—to reflect on the artistic and conceptual essence of what I’m about to express. I think more about how my interpretation will come to life on stage rather than repeating passages mechanically.

Have you ever felt fear during a performance — fear of forgetting, failing, or simply being overwhelmed by the weight of the moment?

No. For me, the real work happens before the performance. By the time I step onto the stage, I’m relying on a solid foundation built through intense preparation that supports every aspect of what I’m about to express. I know exactly how the concept of the performance should unfold. That clarity gives me complete confidence.

When adrenaline threatens to take over, I don’t suppress it—I transform it. I approach it with a mindful awareness, allowing it to shift into artistic energy. I channel it to serve the music. In doing so, a unique atmosphere is created—where every aspect complements the other, and everything merges into a sense of oneness.

Armenia has a musical soul—a tone, a rhythm, a hidden mode. What does it sound like to you, and how do you channel that into classical concert halls around the world?

It sounds like longing to me — modal, tender, like an ancient hymn rising from our stones and mountains. It’s not just a tone, but a memory. That sound lives within me, and I carry it onto the world’s stages, so that even in Paris or Tokyo, one might hear the echo of Armenia and Artsakh in my playing.

For me, Krunk is a symbolic piece — an emotional fingerprint of our people. I’ve performed it in concert halls across the globe. It carries a depth and identity that speak to who we are, where we come from, and what we hold in our hearts.

What do you imagine classical concerts will look like in 50 years? Are today’s traditions still relevant, or do we need to reshape the format entirely?

Of course, formats will evolve. Technology may change how we experience sound and how we see or hear the performer. The same applies to concert recording: with AI actively evolving, some sound engineers and cameramen are beginning to adopt it to capture precise moments in the performance based on the score. But at the core, the essence must remain untouched — the deep emotional dialogue between the performer, the music, and the audience. That is sacred.

People always strive for energy exchange. I am convinced that we have a natural eagerness to connect — with one another, with the sounds, with the moment. We don’t go to concerts just to listen; we go to feel together. That’s something screens, algorithms, or artificial intelligence can never replace. Human beings are emotional by nature. Bach, Mozart, Vivaldi — they were not abstract intellects. They loved, they feared, they struggled, they felt. And their music still speaks to us because it was born from genuine human experience.

I don’t believe the traditions of classical music can ever be outdated. They are not relics — they are foundations. High art must never be diluted to fit trends. We, as artists and listeners, will continue to identify ourselves through the very best of what humanity has created. This thread of human feeling of shared experience through music must always be preserved.

Who are you without the violin? What part of you exists beyond the bow and the stage?

Life without the bow and the stage is unthinkable — the violin has become an extension of who I am and without it, I feel an inexplicable inner turmoil. So, beyond the bow and the stage, there’s little left that feels separate. For me it is more than an instrument. Its sound, which has echoed through centuries in countless environments, gives me a deep sense of reassurance — that it will keep me sane, bring me strength, and give me fulfillment.

You’ve performed all over the world, studied with masters, and redefined what a violinist can achieve. What do you still not understand about the violin? What mystery remains?

I believe that perfection is endless. No matter how much I’ve learned, performed, or discovered, there is always more — more depth, more color, more subtlety waiting to be found through the violin. I constantly uncover new palettes of sound that I can shape and refine, and that process never truly ends. That’s the beauty of it. The idea that there is no true limit gives me energy, purpose, and joy. It’s this infinite pursuit of perfection that fuels my passion and drives my creativity. The mystery of the violin is that it keeps transforming with you — and that’s what makes my artistic journey so meaningful.