There are encounters that seem to encapsulate the meaning of an entire journey. Before the summer break, CremonesiCosìentrusts its story to Maestro Jader Bignamini, a native of Crema, an internationally acclaimed conductor, Music Director of the Detroit Symphony Orchestra, and a man who has never ceased to cherish his deep bond with the Cremona area.

It is a fitting milestone for a column created with the desire to discover the person beyond success, the roots behind talent, and the human story that lies within every achievement.

Since May 2025, we have explored many different worlds: the restless, visionary literature of Sandrone Dazieri; the music of Maestro Mauro Ivano Benaglia; medicine lived as a vocation by Alberto Rigolli; Pierluigi Abbondanza's perspective on dance; and the international career of composer Beppe Cantarelli. We have encountered the unconventional thinking of Alessandro Gnocchi, the multifaceted personality of Matteo Filippini, the athletic and human strength of Paralympic champion Efrem Morelli, and even reached Osaka through Italy's Consul General Filippo Manara. In 2026, the journey resumed with Alessandra Dolci, the magistrate dedicated to the fight against organized crime, and continued with Maria Majori, a physician and scientist who has made care a profoundly human responsibility. The gentle strength of journalist Flavia Lorenzoni, the memory preserved and projected into the future by Francesco Martelli, and the great gastronomic tradition interpreted by Sergio Carboni have all added new voices to this mosaic of Cremonese identities.

Their stories differ greatly, yet they are united by a shared ability to transform their connection to Cremona and its surrounding territory into a source of responsibility, vision, and beauty.

Today, that journey brings us to Jader Bignamini: a man who has reached the world's most prestigious stages without ever severing the thread that ties him to his homeland. Perhaps there could be no more meaningful figure with whom to conclude this season: a Maestro accustomed to leading great orchestras, yet one who has never stopped believing that listening is the truest beginning of every encounter.

Jader Bignamini's story began in Crema, where music was first lived long before it was imagined as a profession. After studying clarinet at the Nicolini Conservatory in Piacenza, he joined the Orchestra Sinfonica di Milano as a clarinetist, later becoming its Resident Conductor. In January 2020, he was appointed the eighteenth Music Director of the Detroit Symphony Orchestra, one of the most prestigious symphonic institutions in the United States. His relationship with the American orchestra was subsequently extended, reflecting an artistic and human bond built on mutual trust over time.

His first encounter with the Detroit musicians had taken place in 2018, when he was called upon to replace Leonard Slatkin in Puccini's Turandot. It was one of those moments when chance seems to intervene, yet in reality it is the preparation of an entire lifetime that makes possible what, to outside observers, appears to happen overnight. The connection was immediate and deepened during a subsequent collaboration devoted to Mahler's Fourth Symphony.

Since then, Bignamini has conducted at many of the world's leading opera houses and with some of its most distinguished orchestras: from New York's Metropolitan Opera to the Vienna State Opera, from the Opéra National de Paris to the Bavarian State Opera, as well as the Arena di Verona, La Fenice in Venice, the Teatro dell'Opera di Roma, and major concert venues throughout Asia.

In the symphonic repertoire, Bignamini frequently conducts from memory, choosing direct eye contact with the musicians instead of relying on the printed score. This is far more than an impressive display of memory. It reflects a way of understanding conducting as a living relationship: the gaze replaces the page, gesture becomes language, and the podium ceases to be a place from which authority is exercised, becoming instead the point where many different voices seek a shared breath.

The fact that the Maestro himself comes from the ranks of the orchestra is no minor detail. A clarinetist learns early that music begins even before the first note is played: it begins with the breath, with anticipation, with the quality of inhalation, and with the ability to enter another musician's sound without overwhelming it. Perhaps for this reason, his authority has never seemed rooted in the mere display of command. It is the authority of someone who understands the vulnerability of the performer, who has shared the silence before the first entrance, and who knows that an orchestra cannot simply be controlled—it must be persuaded, listened to, and guided toward a shared artistic vision.

Detroit recognized in him not only the conductor capable of bringing renewed shape and intensity to the great musical architectures of Mahler, Beethoven, Brahms, and Tchaikovsky, but also an artistic leader able to engage with the city's own cultural identity. A passionate jazz enthusiast, Bignamini immersed himself in Detroit's rich African American musical heritage, introducing contemporary composers into the orchestra's programming while building a bridge between the European symphonic tradition and America's musical legacy.

Yet behind his demanding international schedule and the responsibility of leading one of America's great orchestras remains an enduring connection to the Cremona countryside.

On a sweltering summer afternoon, we meet in the enchanting Gonzaga square of Isola Dovarese. The reason for choosing this place soon becomes clear: music and roots. Two words that run throughout Jader Bignamini's entire story and that, here, seem to find their most natural harmony.

His meeting with his wife, Lidia, seems almost written in the language of music itself. Both clarinetists, they met through the world of the town band, where rehearsals, concerts, tuned instruments, and a shared passion accompanied their youth. Their paths also crossed within the Leopoldo Vecchi Town Band of Isola Dovarese, then conducted by Maestro Giancarlo Agosti, forging an even deeper connection between their story and this place.

Today, Lidia continues to preserve and nurture that same passion through the historic town band of Scandolara Ripa d'Oglio, keeping alive a heritage that belongs not only to music but also to collective memory. A village band is much more than a group of instruments: it is a community recognizing itself, a school of listening and belonging, the voice of a territory that continues to tell its own story.

Over the years, the Maestro has chosen the countryside of Scandolara Ripa d'Oglio as the place to which he returns with his family—a peaceful refuge where he can be with his wife and children, rediscover silence, and embrace a rhythm of life very different from the one imposed by theatres and constant travel.

This is the Jader Bignamini whom CremonesiCosì wished to meet: not only the celebrated conductor, the protagonist of international concert seasons, or the musician entrusted with interpreting the most demanding pages of the repertoire, but the man behind the gesture; the young boy who began in a village band with a clarinet; the father, the husband, the son of Crema who returns to the countryside he still calls home; the person who, every day, is asked to transform talent into responsibility.

Within the beautifully frescoed rooms of Palazzo Quaranta in Isola Dovarese, our conversation with Maestro Jader Bignamini begins: an encounter shaped by music, memory, and belonging, destined to conclude just a few steps away, in the newly restored Casa della Musica at Palazzo Dovara, recently returned to the community and to the future.

Maestro, from the town band of Ombriano to the Detroit Symphony Orchestra: what remains of that young boy from Crema in the conductor you are today?

Without a doubt, what remains is the great passion I've always had for music. I started very young: at the age of nine I began studying the clarinet and playing in the Ombriano town band, and by nineteen I was already conducting that same band. Everything I've done has been driven by the passion that was ignited in me from the very beginning.

The moment I started playing the clarinet, something truly caught fire inside me. Classical music has always been my guiding star, but alongside it another love was born: a broader love for music itself. I have always loved jazz. My father knew Benny Goodman and, back when cassette tapes still existed, he gave me one of his recordings. That's where this dual passion—for classical music and jazz—began.

Playing the clarinet gave me immense satisfaction, above all because it allowed me to make music with other people. Beyond my love of music itself, what has always inspired me is the opportunity to share it with those who feel the same enthusiasm. Over the years I have met countless people with whom I am still in touch today. From the boy I was then to the conductor I am now, what has never changed is my passion for music and the friendships that have grown out of this shared life.

Two pivotal moments in your career came about because you stepped in as a last-minute replacement. How much of success is talent, and how much is simply being ready when opportunity arrives?

Talent is tremendously important, without question. But there's a phrase I often repeat, especially to young people, to my children, and to anyone who asks me: talent without study leads nowhere.

In many cases, a tremendous amount of hard work, even when accompanied by more modest natural talent, can produce greater results. Of course, to reach the highest levels, the ideal situation is to possess both.

I was fortunate to be given talent, but I have cultivated it since childhood through passion, constant listening, and relentless study. Studying has never felt like a burden to me; it has always been fuelled by the curiosity to learn something new every day.

Some of the decisive moments in my career came from fortunate circumstances, such as being called to replace someone at the last minute. When opportunities like that arise, you have to seize them immediately. The fact that I was prepared—after studying enormously, and I still do, because in our profession you never stop studying—allowed me to make the most of those opportunities.

You spent many years inside an orchestra before stepping onto the podium. What did you learn to listen to besides the music?

Being part of an orchestra teaches you two very important things.

The first is what I call the orchestra's "temperature": understanding whether, at that particular moment, the musicians are more or less enthusiastic about the project, whether they already believe in it or whether they need to be inspired and convinced. It also means understanding the way that particular orchestra is accustomed to working. It isn't about working harder or less hard, but about recognizing different working cultures.

Having spent fifteen years as an orchestral musician allows me to sense that temperature quite naturally.

It also helps that I have a degree of empathy which I believe is innate and which, in this profession, enables you to understand people. An orchestra is an incredibly diverse group. Everyone is a musician, but every individual has a different personality and instinct. You need to recognize who naturally assumes a leadership role, who is more collaborative, who is more impulsive. All of these personalities must be understood and balanced, because the conductor's task is ultimately to help the musicians.

So a conductor is also, in some ways, a psychologist?

Absolutely.

The psychological dimension is extremely important. I always tell young conductors that empathy and psychology are fundamental because we communicate with musicians, and our job is to help them.

When we recognize that someone possesses natural leadership qualities, it's important to encourage and channel them positively. In many ways we're like the coach of a sports team: we have to convince everyone that our interpretation of a particular symphony or opera is the right one for that moment—not necessarily the best interpretation in absolute terms.

The next time those same musicians perform the same work with another conductor, they may approach it completely differently and be equally convinced. That is exactly how it should be.

To achieve this, everyone must feel positively involved.

The era of the Toscanini-style conductor is over. Arturo Toscanini was a towering musical figure, but he was also famously authoritarian. Today, what matters is not authoritarianism but genuine authority.

The standard of orchestras has risen enormously. It may happen that I am conducting Mahler's Symphony for only the third or fourth time, while one of the musicians has already performed it fifteen times. I therefore have to bring my own artistic vision while showing profound respect for the experience of the people sitting in front of me.

In the world's finest orchestras, the conductor's work is precisely this: bringing together many strong personalities—which is essential in this profession—and leading them toward a single shared interpretative vision.

One aspect of your conducting is particularly striking: you often conduct from memory, constantly seeking eye contact with the musicians. Does authority come from control, or from trust?

Authority certainly comes from trust.

First of all, from the trust the conductor places in the musicians. When they feel trusted, they also feel valued, because they sense that the conductor truly believes in what they are doing.

At the same time, conducting from memory and demonstrating a deep knowledge of the score gives the musicians confidence in the conductor. Simply waving your arms is not enough. They need to know that I understand the music thoroughly and that I will be able to help them whenever necessary.

As long as everything is going smoothly, the conductor's role is primarily to inspire the musicians and shape the musical interpretation. But small problems can arise, especially in opera, where the conductor must coordinate the orchestra, the chorus, and the singers. When you have two or three hundred people performing together, something can always happen.

The conductor has to solve those problems without the audience ever realizing that anything has gone wrong, and everything must be fixed in real time.

When musicians know that the conductor truly knows the score, the moment something unexpected happens they immediately look at him. They don't say anything, but their eyes are asking, "Help us." And the conductor has to respond within a second.

That's the unique relationship that develops between conductor and orchestra. The audience may not always notice it, and it's difficult to explain, but we know instantly whether that connection is really there, sometimes through nothing more than a glance.

Starting from a deliberately provocative song, I once wrote an editorial asking where an artist's freedom ends and cultural responsibility begins. In your opinion, should art simply reflect society, or should it also help society grow? I'm thinking especially of the lyrics of some contemporary songs, which not everyone appreciates or understands.

I can only answer from the perspective of symphonic and operatic music, because I don't follow pop music closely enough to be the right person to judge it. Of course, I hear it, simply because we're surrounded by it, but there are times when I find myself asking, "Whose song is this?"

From the standpoint of someone who has devoted his life to classical music, I believe there are two essential aspects to consider.

We certainly have both a narrative and an educational role. We have the responsibility to preserve what has come before us and to make it accessible to today's audiences. When we perform a Beethoven symphony—one that has already been played thousands of times—we give someone who has never heard it before, perhaps a young person, the opportunity to discover what life was like between the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries through the music of a composer of that magnitude. Those who already know the work, on the other hand, experience once again the unique emotion of hearing it performed live.

We must always offer a contemporary perspective. For classical musicians, however, "contemporary" means remaining as faithful as possible to what is written in the score. In the past, interpretation sometimes overshadowed the composer's indications. Today, there is a greater desire to return to the score itself, while naturally preserving room for personal interpretation.

Hearing Beethoven's Fifth Symphony performed live can still be an overwhelming experience.

That concerns the music of the past.

But classical music, like every musical genre—and perhaps pop music even more so—is alive. Contemporary works continue to be written.

And this is where we enter... a very debated territory.

People often ask me, "Maestro, do you like contemporary music?" My answer is always the same: "I like good music, well performed. Beyond that, of course, I have my personal tastes."

No one can establish, in absolute terms, that one piece is beautiful and another is not. I may love Beethoven, you may prefer Mozart, my wife may choose Verdi, and someone else may be passionate about Duke Ellington. Taste differs from person to person.

What we should help people understand is that art, in every age, points toward the direction in which the world is moving.

Sometimes we fail to recognize it or understand it, but art is always ahead of society. It arrives first, and for precisely that reason it also carries responsibility.

Today we may perform a new work for the very first time while imagining that, twenty years from now, it will have been performed hundreds of times—although, naturally, that doesn't happen to every composition.

I believe the same is true of popular music. Some songs last only for a single summer, while others remain with us for twenty or thirty years. Think of singer-songwriters like Lucio Battisti: his songs are still sung today, whereas many songs that dominate one summer are forgotten by the next.

The true value of art can only be understood with the passing of time.

Part of an artist's challenge—and, in my case, a conductor's challenge—is choosing which composers to believe in. Based on the musical value I perceive in a composition and on how the orchestra brings it to life, I may become convinced that a composer will still be known a hundred years from now.

Artists are—and should be—ahead of society.

It is a good thing when culture helps shape society, rather than society dictating the direction of culture.

When one day you look back on your career, what difference would you like to have made—for orchestras, for musicians, and for audiences?

I consider myself fortunate because, for most of my career, I have conducted extraordinary orchestras of the highest calibre.

I am thinking especially of the Detroit Symphony Orchestra, where I serve as Music Director, and of the Orchestra Sinfonica di Milano—formerly Orchestra Verdi—where I was Associate and Resident Conductor.

I believe the most important legacy I have left lies in my working method, my dedication, and my attention to the smallest details.

I am convinced that what separates true excellence from everything else is found precisely in those details.

If we listen to the same piece performed by different orchestras, it is the details that make the difference.

The same is true in every art form: painting, dance, sculpture. Two artists may depict exactly the same subject, yet one work captivates us while another, seemingly similar, leaves us indifferent. There is always a detail that captures our attention.

The same applies to musical performance.

This idea is central to the way I work.

In Detroit, they also chose me because, as they themselves say, I am a hard worker. Everything I do stems from the desire to be as faithful as possible to what the composer wrote in the score.

Sometimes I stop the orchestra and say, "Careful—we missed that accent," or, "We didn't shape that small crescendo."

It may seem insignificant, but within the complexity of a musical work it is precisely these countless small details, taken together, that elevate a performance to the highest level.

Without this attention, you may achieve a performance that is good and enjoyable, but rarely one that is truly unforgettable.

What I hope to leave to every orchestra I work with is precisely this approach: a profound commitment to detail that raises the artistic standard of the ensemble.

Jader Bignamini's story reminds us that leaving home does not mean leaving one's origins behind; that success does not erase where we come from; and that authentic roots are not an anchor, but a resonating chamber.

From Crema, where everything began, to Milan; from the world's great opera houses to the podium of the Detroit Symphony Orchestra, Jader Bignamini's journey spans borders, cities, and continents.

And yet, passing through the countryside of Scandolara Ripa d'Oglio and the quiet square of Isola Dovarese, those distances suddenly seem to disappear.

Because the true thread running through his story is not music alone.

It is life itself—with its roots, its encounters, and that quiet inner voice which, even from the farthest corners of the world, continues to show us the way home.