vers choisey la rivière a changé d’avis plusieurs fois, on devine les coudes et les boucles de l’ancien lit du doubs, qui se recroisent et se retrouvent, puis l’eau qui porte un autre nom s’y jette, son petit bras et puis la loue toute entière, l’eau pâle et sablonneuse maintenant, le doubs s’étale confus, il sent venir la fin, morte de la croze, morte du petit vert, morte de la bande, il créé des îles, il fait de la calligraphie, des découpages, île de pic à poc (si !), île du château, pont de champdivers, les parcelles sont d’un vert délavé, ça y est, c’est l’hiver sur google maps, le doubs est un pinceau plein de sable, étalé, pas beaucoup plus gros que la saône, vu d’ici,

— les rivières n’existent pas

The bass growls like a lawnmower, like a David Lynch soundtrack. Arhythmic. Orchestral. The heart follows.

⚭

The French word for layers or waves of sound is ‘nappes’ – the same word as phreatic,

(to disappear,)

— minor literatures, Circles and Circles: on absorption, anxiety & post-metal

The Danube, too, is a conflicted and contradictory space, full of industrial machinery and wild islands, a junkyard and an ecosystem all at once. On its edges, sharp loess cliffs and endless green flatlands. I’m interested in the intersections between these layers and how they shape the region as a liminal space on the edge of the EU. After all, border rivers are no more dangerous than any other body of water. It is our own philosophies and technologies of bordering, our exclusionary and racist migration policies, our blind eye turned to abuses of power that are killing people.

At the end of the journey, back on dry land, the work is not done. I am still actively collecting testimonies from people who have made the crossing. Sorting through my field recordings. Writing up. From time to time I still feel the lilt of the river beneath my feet. Bright and murky waters.

— Notes from the rivers, Liminal spaces and fluid borders

Solo lines shine briefly, patterns are tossed back and forth across the stage in bright, mobile conversation, then slip back under the surface. Clusters of sound emerge, as if ur-instruments were briefly created out of the meeting of close textures and tones: the piano, the harp, the celesta. Then, sudden silence. My notes contain the words wavelets, gestures, phrasework. Always, a sense of something slippery, chromatic, vanishing just out of reach. 

— Bachtrack, Gestures towards: Enno Poppe in Lucerne